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Copyright } 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

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ROPE 






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COPYRIGHT, 1922, 

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc. 



PRINTED IN IT. S. A. 


VAIL -BALLOU COMPANY 
BINGHAMTON ANO NEW YORK 


A >Op V 

C1A683755 




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ROPE 



ROPE 


CHAPTER I 

A S Henry came blithely into the house with 
a heavy suit-case in one hand and a 
cumbersome kit-bag in the other, his Aunt 
Mirabelle marched out like a grenadier from 
the living-room, and posted herself in the hall- 
way to watch him approach. There was this 
much to say for Aunt Mirabelle: she was at 
least consistent, and for twenty years she had 
worn the same expression whenever she looked 
at him. During that period the rest of the 
world and Henry had altered, developed, ad- 
vanced — but not Aunt Mirabelle. 'She had 
changed neither the style of her clothes nor the 
nature of her convictions ; she had disapproved 
of Henry when he was six, and therefore, she 
disapproved of him today. To let him know 
it, she regarded him precisely as though he 
1 


2 EOPE 

were still six, and had forgotten to wash his 
face. 

“I suppose,’ ’ remarked Aunt Mirabelle, in 
her most abrasive voice, “I suppose you’re 
waiting for me to say I hope you had a good 
time. Well, I’m not a-going to say it, because 
it wouldn’t be true, and I wouldn’t want to have 
it sitting on my conscience. Of course, some 
people haven’t got much of any conscience for 
anything to sit on, anyway. If they did, they’d 
be earnest, useful citizens. If they did, then 
once in a while they’d think about something 
else besides loud ties and silk socks and golf. 
And they wouldn’t be gallivanting off on house- 
parties for a week at a time, either; they’d be 
tending to their business — if they had any. 
And if they hadn’t, they ought to.” 

Henry put down, the bag and the suit-case, 
removed his straw hat, and grinned, with a 
fair imitation of cheerfulness. He had never 
learned how to handle Aunt Mirabelle, and 
small wonder; for if he listened in silence, he 
was called sulky; if he disputed her, he was 
called flippant; if he agreed with her, she ac- 
cused him of fraud; and if he obeyed his natural 


ROPE 


3 


instincts, and treated her with tolerant good- 
humour, she usually went on a conversation 
strike, and never weakened until after the 
twelfth apology. Whatever he did was wrong, 
so that purely on speculation, he grinned, and 
said what came to his tongue. 

“ Maybe so,” said Henry, “ maybe so, but 
conscience is a plant of slow growth,” and im- 
mediately after he had said this, he wished that 
he had chosen a different epigram — something 
which wasn’t so liable to come back at him, 
later, like a boomerang. 

6 ‘ Humph!” said Aunt Mirabelle. “It is, is 
it? Well, if I was in your place, I’d be impa- 
tient for it to grow faster.” 

Henry shook his head. “No, I don’t believe 
you would. I’ve read somewhere that impa- 
tience dries the blood more than age or sor- 
row.” He assumed an air of critical satisfac- 
tion. “The bird that wrote that had pretty 
good technique, don’t you think?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “All right, 
Henry. Be pert. But I know what made you 
so almighty anxious to sneak off on this house- 
party; and I know whose account it was you 


4 


EOPE 


went on, too, and I don’t see for the life of me 
why your uncle hasn’t put his foot down.” 
She sighed, as though in deep mourning. “I 
did hope you’d grow up different from these 
other boys, Henry, but you’re all of you just 
alike. When you get old enough, do you pick 
out some pure, innocent, sensible, young woman 
that’s been trained the way girls were trained 
in my day? No. You go and make fools of 
yourselves over these short-skirted little hus- 
sies all powdered up like a box of marshmal- 
lows. And as long as they’re spry enough and 
immodest enough to do all these new bunny 
dances and what not, you think that’s a sure 
sign they’ll make good wives and mothers. 
Humph. Makes me sick/’ 

In spite of himself, Henry lost his artificial 
grin, and began to turn dull red. “I wouldn’t 
go quite so far as to say that.” 

“Well,” retorted Aunt Mirabelle, “I didn’t 
hardly expect you would. But you’ll go far 
enough to see one of ’em, I notice. . . . Well, 
your uncle’s home this afternoon; long’s he’s 
paying your bills, you might have the grace to 
go in and say howdy-you-do to him.” She 


EOPE 


5 


marched upstairs, and Henry, revolving his hat 
in his hand, gazed after her until she was out of 
sight. He stood, irresolute, until the echo of 
her common-sense shoes died into silence; and 
as he lingered, he was struck for the ten 
thousandth time by the amazing mystery of the 
human family. 

First, there was his mother, a small and ex- 
quisite woman with music in her heart and in 
the tips of her fingers ; his memory of her was 
dim, but he knew that she had been the maddest 
and the merriest of all possible mothers — a 
creature of joy and sunshine and the sheer 
happiness of existence. And then her sister 
Mirabelle, who found life such a serious condi- 
tion to be in, and loved nothing about it, save 
the task of reforming it for other people 
whether the other people liked it or not. And 
finally, her brother John, bald, fat, and good- 
natured; a man whose personal interests were 
bounded by his own physical comfort, and by 
his desire to see everyone else equally comfort- 
able. Whenever Henry thought of this trio, he 
reflected that his grandparents must have been 
very versatile. 


6 


ROPE 


He drew a long breath, and glanced up the 
stairway, as though the spirit of his Aunt 
Mirabelle were still haunting him; then, with a 
depressing recollection of what she had said 
about his conscience, and with hot resentment 
at what she said about his taste, he walked 
slowly into the library. 

His uncle John Starkweather, who had been 
writing at a big desk between the windows, 
sprang up to shake hands with him. 1 ‘ Hello, 
boy! Thought Bob Standish must have kid- 
napped you. Have a good party? ” 

‘ ‘ Fine, thanks, ’ 1 said Henry, but his tone was 
so subdued and joyless that his uncle stared at 
him for a moment, and then went over to close 
the door. Standing with his back to it, Mr. 
Starkweather smiled reminiscently and a trifle 
ruefully, and began to peel the band from a 
cigar. “What’s the matter? Mirabelle say 
anything to you?” 

“Why — nothing special.” 

His uncle hesitated. “In a good many 
ways,” he said, lowering his voice, “Mirabelle 
puts me in mind of my father. When he was 
a boy, out in the country, he ’d had to smash the 


ROPE 


7 


ice in the water-pitcher every morning and he 
was proud of it — thought a boy that hadn’t 
earned some of his godliness with an ice-pick 
was a dude. Thought what was good enough 
for his father was good enough for him , and 
sometimes it was too good. Didn’t believe in 
modern improvements like telephones and 
easy chairs and three-tined forks ; didn’t believe 
in labour-savin’ devices because labour wasn’t 
meant to be saved. Bible says for us to work 
six days a week, and if he ever had any spare 
time before Sat ’day night, he figured he must 
have forgot somethin’. Business — well, he 
called advertisin’ a rich man’s luxury, and 
said an audit was an insult to his partners. 
Said he’d welcome a sheriff sooner ’n he would 
an expert accountant — and in the long run, 
that’s exactly what he did . Involuntary bank- 
ruptcy — found his sanctimonious old cashier’d 
been sanctimoniously lootin’ the till for 
eighteen years.” He paused, and eyed his 
cigar. “Well, Mirabelle’s cut more or less off 
the same piece. Lord, I wish she could go 
through some kind of bankruptcy, if ’t would 
shake her up like it did father.” 


8 


ROPE 


“It — shook him up, did it!” inquired Henry, 
fidgetting. 

“Well,” said his uncle, “after the crash, I 
don’t recollect he ever mentioned the good old 
times again except once ; and that was to praise 
the good old habit of takin’ defaulters and 
boilin’ ’em in oil. No, sir, he wouldn’t so much 
as add two and two together without an addin’ 
machine, and he used to make an inventory of 
his shirts and winter flannels pretty near every 
week. And Mirabelle’s the same way; she’s 
still tryin’ to live under the 1874 rules.” He 
came back to his desk, and sat down thought- 
fully. “Well, she’s been talkin’ to me ever 
since you went off on this party and as far’s 
most of it’s concerned, I’m not on her side, and 
I’m not on your side; I’m sort of betwixt and 
between.” He looked sidewise at Henry, and 
discovered that Henry was peering off into 
space, and smiling as though he saw a vision in 
the clouds. “Just as man to man, just for the 
information; suppose you passed up everything 
I’ve said to you, and went and got married one 
of these days — did you expect I’d go on sup- 
portin’ you?” 


ROPE 9 

Henry came down to earth, and his expres- 
sion showed that he had landed heavily. 
“Why— what was that?” 

His uncle repeated it, with a postscript. 
6 1 Oh, I Ve always told you you could have any- 
thing you wanted within reason that I could pay 
for. But from what I been told” — his eyes 
twinkled — “wives ain’t always reasonable. 
And it does seem to me that when a young man 
gets to be twenty five or six, and never did a 
lick of work in his life, and loafs around clubs 
and plays polo just because he’s got a rich 
uncle, why, it ’s a sort of a reflection on both of 
’em. Seem so to you?” 

Henry glanced up nervously and down again. 
“To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought much about 
it.” 

“Say,” said his uncle, confidentially. 
“Neither had I. Not ’till Mirabelle told me 
you went off on this party because Anna Bar- 
klay was goin’ to be there. . . . Now I had 
pretty hard sleddin’ when I was your age; I’ve 
kind of liked to see you enjoy yourself. But 
Mirabelle — Now I said before, I ain’t on her 
side, and I ain’t on your side; I had the thing 


10 


ROPE 


out with you once or twice ‘already, and I guess 
you know what my angles are. Only if Mira- 
belled got any grounds, maybe I ought to say 
it over again. . . . You been out of college four 
years now, and you tried the automobile 
business for two months and the bond business 
for two* weeks and the real-estate business for 
two minutes, and there you quit. You spent 
five, six thousand a year and that was all right, 
but I admit I don’t like the idea of your 
gettin’ married on nothin’ but prospects, 
specially when 7’m all the prospects there is. 
Sound fair to you?” 

Henry nodded, with much repression, 
“You couldn’t be unfair if you tried, Uncle 
John.” 

“Well, you was always open to reason, even 
when you' was in kindergarten. . . . Now, in 
some ways I don’t approve of you any more’n 
Mirabelle does, but she wants me to go too 
blamed far. She wants me to turn you loose 
the way my father did me. She wants me to 
say if you should ever marry without my con- 
sent I’ll cut you out of my will. But that’s old 
stuff. That’s cold turkey. Mirabelle don’t 


ROPE 


11 


know times have changed — she’s so busy with 
that cus-sed Reform League of hers, she don’t 
have time to reform any of her own slants 
about things.” He rolled his cigar under his 
tongue. 

“Well, I’m goin’ to compromise. Before you 
get involved too deep, I want you to know 
what ’s in my mind. I don ’t believe it ’s the best 
thing for either of us for me to go on bein’ a 
kind of an evergreen money-bush. And a man 
that’s earnin’ his own livin’ don’t have to ask 
odds of anybody. Don’t you think you better 
bundle up your courage and get to work, 
Henry?” 

Henry was twiddling his watch-chain. “It 
hasn’t been a matter of courage , exactly — ” 

“Oh, I know that. I don’t believe you’re 
scared of work; you’re only sort of shy about it. 
I never saw you really afraid of more’n three 
things — bein’ a spoil-sport, or out of style, or 
havin’ a waiter think you’re stingy. No, you 
ain’t afraid of work, but you never been 
properly introduced, so you’re kind of stand- 
offish about it. I’ve always kind of hoped 
you’d take a tip from Bob Standish — there 9 s 


12 


ROPE 


one of your own breed that knows where the 
durable satisfactions of life are. Just as good 
family’s yours.; just as much money; just as 
fond of games; — and workin’ like a prize pup 
in my office and makin’ good. He’ 11 tell 
you. . . . But if you go get married, boy, be- 
'fore you show you could take care of yourself, 
and what money I might leave you — oh, I don ’t 
say you got to put over any miracle, but I do 
say you got to learn the value of money first. 
You’d do that by earnin’ some. If you don’t, 
then you and me’d have a quarrel. Sound 
logical to you?” 

Henry was frowning a little, and sitting 
nearer to the edge of his chair. “Too darned 
logical,” he said. 

His uncle surveyed him with great indul- 
gence. “What’s the idea?” he asked, hu- 
mourously. “You ain’t gone oft and got your- 
self married already, have you?” 

Henry stood up, and squared his shoulders, 
and looked straight into his uncle’s eyes. His 
voice was strained, but at the same time it held 
a faint note of relief, as if he had contained his 


E 0 P E 13 

secret too long for his own nerves. “Yes, 
Uncle John. . . 

And waited, as before the Court of last 
appeal. 


& 


CHAPTER II 


T HE older man sat limp in his chair, and 
stared until the ash of his cigar tumbled, 
untidily, over his waistcoat. He brushed at it 
with uncertain, ineffective motions, but his eyes 
never left his nephew. He put the cigar once 
more to his lips, shuddered, and flung it away. 

“Boy — ” he said, at length, “Boy — is that 
true?” 

Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, Uncle 
John.” 

“Who is it? Anna Barklay?” 

“Yes, Uncle John.” 

“When?” 

“Yesterday afternoon.” 

“Does — Judge Barklay know it yet?” 

“No, not yet. He’s out of town.” 

His uncle drew a tremendous breath, and 
pulled himself upright. “ Boy, ” he said, ‘ ‘ why 
in the hell did you ever go and do a thing like 
that ? . . . Haven ’t I been pretty decent to you, 

14 


EOPE 


15 


the best I knew how? . . . Why’d you ever go, 
and — have I been mistaken in you all this while? 
Why, boy, I thought you and me were friends 

There was another heavy silence. “I don’t 
know. It just happened. The way things do 
— sometimes. We’ve always been crazy about 
each other.” 

Mr. Starkweather was looking at and through 
his nephew, who was man-grown and pre- 
sumably a rational human being; but what Mr. 
Starkweather actually saw was the vision of 
a little boy dressed in Lord Fauntleroy velvet, 
with silver knee-buckles and a lace collar; and 
much as a drowning man is supposed to review, 
in a lightning flash, every incident of his whole 
life, so was Mr. Starkweather reviewing the 
life of Henry, beginning with the era of black 
velvet, and ending with the immediate present. 
That history was a continuous record of dash- 
ing impulses, and the gayest irresponsibility; 
and yet, when the time came for an accounting, 
Henry had offered only explanations, and never 
excuses. In his glorious pursuit of the 
calendar, he had paid his penalties as royally as 
he had earned them; and even now, when he 


16 


EOPE 


was confessed of the most impetuous and the 
most astounding act of all his unballasted 
youth, he had nothing to say in defence. As a 
climax, marriage had “happened” to him, and 
he was braced for whatever might happen next. 

Presently, Mr. Starkweather, coming out of 
his daze, began to wonder if, by this very 
climax, Henry hadn’t prescribed his own 
medicine, and at the same time taken out insur- 
ance on his own salvation. For one thing, he 
had selected the right girl — a girl with no 
money, and plenty of character — a girl who 
would manage him so skilfully that Henry 
would think himself the manager. For another 
thing, Mr. Starkweather believed that Henry 
was profoundly in love with her, even though he 
tried to conceal his seriousness by spreading it 
with a generous helping of light manner, and 
modem vocabulary. These facts, together 
with Mr. Starkweather’s control of the finances, 
might possibly operate as the twin levers which 
would pry Henry out of his improvidence. 
The levers themselves were certainly strong 
enough; it was a question only of Henry’s re- 
sistance. Mr. Starkweather winced to realize 


ROPE 


17 


that by the time the minute-hand of his watch 
had gone twice again around the dial, he should 
know definitely and permanently whether 
Henry was worth his powder, or not. 

He leaned his elbows on his desk, judicially. 
“Pm pretty much knocked edgeways, Henry 
— but tell me one more thing; this wasn’t any 
bet, was it, or — ” 

“Bet!” flared Henry, and all the youth went 
out of his features. 

“Yes. Nobody dared you to go and get mar- 
ried — it wasn’t any kind of a put-up job, was 
it?” 

The younger man was righteously indignant. 
“Uncle John, I admit I haven’t won any medals 
for — for some things, — and maybe you think I 
am the kind of bird that would — do this on a bet, 
or a dare — and if you do think that — I guess 
we’re both mistaken in each other!” 

His uncle’s hand went up. “Hold your 
horses! You’ve answered the question. If 
you hadn’t got mad, I’d have thrown you out 
the window. Why did you do it, then? ... No 
— never mind.” He looked away. “7 know. 
Spring, and impulse and no emergency brakes. 


18 


EOPE 


1 know. . . He looked back at Henry, and 
smiled oddly. ‘ ‘And I was just goin’ to tell 
you, before you sprung it on me, that if you 
cared two cents about that girl, — and me, too, 
— you ’d want to deserve her- — do somethin ’ be- 
sides be a model to hang expensive clothes on.” 

“Yes,” said Henry, also judicial. “I guess 
I ’m entitled to that wallop. ’ ’ 

His uncle nodded. “That one and quite a 
few more. Still, you. never heard anybody ac- 
cuse me of not bein , a good sport, did you?” 

•“No, Uncle John. I counted on it.” 

“Who knows this — besides us?” 

“Just Bob Standish. We took him along for 
a witness.” 

“ So ! Bob Standish ! Hm. I ’d have thought 
Bob’d had sense enough to try to stop it. I’ll 
have words with him. ” 

“He did try.” 

Mr. Starkweather rose. “Where’s Anna?” 

‘ ‘Out in the car. With Bob. ’ ’ 

His uncle froze. “Out there? Waitin’ 
there all this time ? For Heaven’s sake, Henry, 
she’ll be in a conniption fit ! You go bring her 
in here — and tell her to stop worryin’. I’m 


ROPE 


19 


sore as the devil, and I'm goin' to make an ex- 
ample out of you, but that ain't any reason to 
act like a grouch, is it? Sound sensible to you? 
Bring her in here. Not Bob — I'll see him 
afterwards." 


She was small and intensely feminine, but 
there was nothing fragile about her, and no 
slightest hint of helplessness. She was pretty 
enough, too, and her attractions were more than 
skin-deep ; to the qualities which showed in her 
eyes — sincerity and humour and imagination — 
there was also to be added sweetness of dis- 
position and sensitiveness, which were proved 
by the curves of her mouth; and finally, there 
was quiet determination, stopping just short of 
stubbornness, which was evident in the mould- 
ing of her strong little chin. 

She came in slowly, questioningly, not in fear, 
but merely poised so as to adjust herself to any 
style of reception. Mr. Starkweather met her 
eyes and laughed — a fat, spontaneous, under- 
standing laugh — and blushing furiously, she 


20 


ROPE 


ran to him, with both her hands outstretched. 

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Starkweather, and 
interrupted himself long enough to kiss her, 
“I’ll say Henry’s got a darned sight better 
judgment ’n you have. ... Go on and blush. 
Make a good job of it. Ashamed of yourself? 
So’m I. Sit down there and cringe. You too, 
Henry.” He himself remained on his feet. 
‘ ‘ Funny thing, ’ ’ he said, after a pause. ‘ ‘ Only 
chance I ever had to get married myself was 
somethin’ like this is — oh, I wasn’t a gilt loafer, 
like Henry is; I was workin’ sixteen hours a 
day, but I wasn’t makin’ money enough. Both 
our fathers said so. And she’d have run off, 
but I wouldn ’t. Thought it wasn ’t respectable, 
I guess. Anyhow, it kind of petered out, and 
I lost my nerve. Wish to thunder I’d taken a 
chance when I had it. Worth it, sometimes.” 
He whirled on Henry, abruptly. “Well, you 
took your chance. Now let’s see if you think 
it’s worth it. If you’re figurin’ on any help 
from me, you got to work for it first. If you’d 
waited, I’d kind of made things easy for you. 
Now, I’m goin’ to hand you the meanest job I 
can think of. It won’t be an insult and it won’t 


ROPE 21 

be a joke, but maybe you’ll take it for both — 
until you learn better . 9 9 

“What is it, Uncle John?” 

“I’ll tell you when you get back from your 
honeymoon. ’ ’ 

The two young people stared at each other, 
and at Mr. Starkweather. “From our — 
what ? ’ ’ asked the girl, incredulously. 

“Honeymoon. Oh, you made a couple of 
prize fools of yourselves, and if I did what I 
ought to, I’d cut Henry off sharp this minute. 
But — guess I better make a fool of ww/self, so 
you’ll feel more at home.” He coughed ex- 
plosively. “Besides, you’re awful young, both 
of you — and damn it, if you don’t cash in on it 
now, next thing you know you’ll be wonderin’ 
where the time’s gone, anyway. No sense in 
robbin’ you of the best months of your life, just 
because you hadn’t sense enough to rob your- 
selves of it — is there? Oh, I suppose I’m a 
kind of a sentimental cuss, but — must be I like 
the feelin’ of it.” He jerked his head toward 
Henry. “This is April. Take her off some- 
where — Italy? South of France? — ’till next 
August. Then you report back here, all fixed 


22 E 0 P E 

and ready to eat crow. Sound fair to you?” 

The girl rose, and crossed the room to him. 
‘ ‘ Mr. Starkweather — ” 

“Name’s Uncle John,” he corrected. “You 
married it.” 

“Uncle John — I — I don’t know how to — ” 
She bit her lip, and he saw the depths of her 
eyes, and saw that they were filling with tears. 
She gestured imperatively to Henry. “You 
know him better — you tell him. ’ ’ 

Henry had sprung across to join them. “Un- 
cle John, you’re a peach! I’ll break rock on 
the streets if you say so! You’re a peach!” 

“Well,” said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfor- 
tably. “If everybody else’s goin’ to bawl, I 
guess it’ll have to be contagious. . . . Only 
when you get back, you’re both goin’ to pay the 
piper. I’m goin’ to make Henry earn his salt, 
whether he’s got it in him or not; I’m goin’ to 
make him crawl. That goes as it stands, too; 
no foolin’. . . . Look here, don’t you want me 
to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I 
can put it up to him in writin ’ twice as good 
as Henry put it up to me by talkin’, anyhow. 
. . . And I’ll put an announcement in the 


ROPE 


23 


Herald that ’ll take the cuss oft. Anna, you 
hustle up some engraved notices to get around 
to all our friends. You know what’s in 
style. . . . Oh, you’re a couple of champion 
idiots, and Henry’s goin’ to sweat for it when 
he comes home, but — God bless you, my boy, 
and you too, my dear — only how in blazes am 
I goin’ to get it across to Mirabelle? That’s 
what bites me the worst, Henry; that’s what 
bites me the worst!” 


CHAPTEB III 


I N a small office on the third floor of the City 
Bank Building Mr. Theodore Mix, broker 
and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon 
Tiis morning newspaper. For thirty years (he 
was fifty-five) Mr. Mix had been a prominent 
and a mildly influential citizen, and by great ef- 
fort he had managed to keep himself excessively 
overrated. A few years ago he had even been 
mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the 
ambition was still alive within him, although 
fulfilment was never so distant. But despite 
his appearance, which was dignified, and des- 
pite his manner, which would have done for 
the diplomatic corps, and despite his con- 
nection with local charities and churches and 
civic committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of 
a bounder; and although the past decade or 
two he had made a handsome income, he had 
contrived to get rid of it as fast as he con- 


ROPE 25 

veniently could, and by methods which wouldn ’t 
always have stood analysis. 

Lately, for no apparent cause, his best cus- 
tomers had edged away from him ; he was glid- 
ing rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless 
he clambered out again within six or eight 
w r eeks, he should have considerable difficulty 
in preserving his reputation, both financial and 
ethical. And like all men in the same position, 
Mr. Mix was fiercely jealous of his prestige; 
by long practice he had warped himself into 
thinking that it belonged to him; and he was 
ready to defend it with every conceivable 
weapon. 

For the moment, however, Mr. Mix was 
querulous rather than defensive. He was try- 
ing to place the blame for the past two sea- 
sons of misfortune, and when he observed that 
Pacific Refining was twelve points up from Sat- 
urday’s close, he sighed wearily and told him- 
self that it was all a matter of luck. He had 
had an appointment, last Saturday at nine 
o’clock, with his friend John Starkweather, and 
he had meant to borrow something from him, if 


26 


ROPE 


possible, and to risk a few hundred shares of 
Pacific Refining on margin; but he had over- 
slept, and Mr. Starkweather had left his office 
at nine fifteen and hadn’t come back again that 
day, so that the profit which might so easily 
have come to rest in Mr. Mix’s pockets was now 
in other quarters. 

Luck! The most intangible of assets and 
the most unescapable of liabilities. On Satur- 
day, Mr. Mix had arrived too late because he 
had overslept because his alarm-clock had been 
tinkered by a watchmaker who had inherited a 
taste for alcohol from a parent who had been 
ruined by the Chicago fire — and almost before 
he knew it, Mr. Mix had trailed the blame to 
Adam and Eve, and was feeling personally re- 
sentful. It was plain to him that his failure 
wasn ’t in any sense his own fault. 

As he resumed his paper, however, his 
querulousness yielded to a broad sunny opti- 
mism, and he turned to the sporting page and 
hunted out the news from the Bowie track. 
He had a friend at Bowie, and the friend owned 
a horse which he swore was the darkest three- 
year-old in captivity; he had wired Mr. Mix to 


HOPE 


27 


hypothecate his shirt, and bet the proceeds on 
the fourth race, this coming Saturday. The 
odds would be at least 10 to 1, he said, and he 
could place all the money that Mr. Mix might 
send him. 

Mr. Mix leaned back and built a stable in the 
air. Suppose he could borrow a couple of thou- 
sand. Twenty thousand clear profit. Then a 
quick dash into the cotton-market (the price was 
certainly going to break wide open in another 
month) and the twenty would unfold, and ex- 
pand, and become fifty. And if a shrewd, cold- 
blooded man went down to Wall Street with 
fifty thousand dollars, and played close to his 
chest, he ought to double his capital in four 
months. To be sure, Mr. Mix had been losing 
steadily for a dozen years, but he was confi- 
dent that he had it in him to be a great and 
successful plunger. He felt it. Heretofore, 
he had been handicapped by operating on a 
shoestring; but with fifty thousand dollars to 
put his back against — 

His stenographer announced a caller, and 
on the instant, Mr. Mix, put on his other per- 
sonality, and prepared to silver his tongue. 


28 


ROPE 


The caller, however, came straight to Mr. Mix’s 
desk, and flipped out one sheet from a large 
portfolio. “Say,” he remarked brusquely. 
“What’s the matter with this bill! Ziegler 
and Company. Two ninety two sixty — dated 
November. ” 

Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a ci- 
gar. “Why, nothing’s the matter with it. 
“What’s the matter with Ziegler and Com- 
pany! Aren’t they solvent!” 

The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed. 
“Well it ain’t any of my funeral, but Ziegler 
he says if you don’t settle by the fifteenth, he’ll 
give it to his attorney.” 

For the third time in a week, an attorney 
had been lugged into the conversation; more 
than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters 
from two different collection agencies. “In 
the words of the Good Book,” he said sooth- 
ingly, “have patience and I will pay thee all.” 

“What say! Will I come in next week some- 
time!” 

“Now, that,” said Mr. Mix, with a rush of 
approval, “is a first-rate idea. That’s first- 
rate. Come in next week some time.” 


ROPE 


29 


“Right-o. Only Ziegler, he’s pretty hard- 
boiled, Mr. Mix. . . . Say, why don’t you 
gimme a check now, and save me from gettin’ 
flat-footed? Two ninety two sixty? Why for 
you that’s chicken-feed.” 

“Bill hasn’t been audited yet,” said Mr. 
Mix, with all the grandeur of an industrial 
chieftain. 1 1 Come in next week. ’ ’ 

The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled 
at the bill, threatened to tear it, and finally put 
it away in a drawer where it had plenty of 
companionship. To think that after his life- 
time as an important citizen — generally sup- 
posed to be well-to-do if not actually rich — 
he couldn’t pay a trifling account of less than 
three hundred dollars because he didn’t have 
three hundred dollars in the bank. Collec- 
tion agencies and the warning of suits — and 
impertinence from young ruffians who were 
hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily, 
and then gave his shoulders an upward move- 
ment of rancour and disgust. 

And yet — the lines receded from his forehead 
— and yet there was always J ohn Starkweather, 
and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose, and 


30 


ROPE 


went out to the corridor, and down it to a 
door which was lettered with Mr. Stark- 
weather’s name, followed by the inscription: 
Real Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans. 
And as he entered, and remembered that thirty 
years ago he and John Starkweather had oc- 
cupied adjoining stools at the same high desk, 
and broken their back over the same drudgery, 
and at the same wage, he was filled with an 
emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side 
by side, only thirty years ago, and separated 
now by the Lord knew what, and the Lord 
knew why. Mr. Mix knew that he was brainier 
than John Starkweather; he admitted it. 
Brainier, smoother, quicker of wit, and more 
polished. But Starkweather’s office handled 
the bulk of local realty transactions; it wrote 
more insurance than all of its competitors in a 
mass; it loaned almost as much money, on 
mortgage, as the Trust and Savings. And Mr. 
Mix, Broker, was on the verge of bankruptcy. 
Luck! No question about it. 

At the swinging gate there was a girl-clerk 
who smiled up at him, flirtatiously. “Want to 


ROPE 


31 


see the boss I He ’s busy for a coupla minutes. ’ ’ 
“All right,” said Mr. Mix in an undertone. 
“Til stay here and talk to you.” 

“The nerve of some folks! Think I’m paid 
to listen to your line of hot air! Not ’till they 
double my salary. You go sit down and have 
a thought. Exercise ’s what you need. ’ ’ 

Mr. Mix rolled his eyes heavenward. “So 
young, and so heartless!” he murmured, and 
went sedately forward to the reception room. 

The door of the private office was not quite 
closed; so that the voices of two men were 
faintly audible. Mr. Mix cast about him, made 
sure that he was unobserved, and dignifiedly 
changed his seat — nearer that door. 

“Yes,” said a voice which at first he couldn’t 
recognize. “The deed’s recorded. So legally, 
Henry owns the property now. ’ ’ Mr. Mix 
nodded triumphantly ; the voice belonged to Mr. 
Archer, a leading lawyer and Mr. Stark- 
weather’s closest friend. 

“That’s the idea.” This was in Mr. Stark- 
weather’s familiar bass. “Now how’d you fix 
the will!” 


32 


ROPE 


“Why, it was very simple. Your point was 
that you didn’t want everybody to know what 
was going on. So — ” 

“No. And if I put a lot o’ conditions like 
that in a will, why just as soon as it was pro- 
bated, Henry and Mirabelle’d both get an awful 
lot o’ bum publicity. They’d both be sore, 
and I’d look like a nut. . . . Naturally, I don’t 
plan to die off as soon as all this, but better 
be safe. I just want to fix it up so Henry’ll 
get the same deal no matter what happens. ’ ’ 
“Very wise, very wise, . . . Well, here’s 
what I’ve done. I’ve changed the will so that 
the entire residuary estate is left to me in trust 
for your sister and nephew to be administered 
according to the trust-deed we’re executing to- 
day. They can probate that until they ’re black 
in the face, but nobody’s going to find out any 
more than we want them to.” 

“Sounds all right so far, but don’t you have 
to take a trust agreement like that into Court, 
too?” 

“Sooner or later, yes. But you’ll notice that 
I’ve covered it so that unless Henry or Miss 
Starkweather says something, nobody’s go- 


ROPE 


33 


ing to know until the year’s ont, and I make 
the accounting. Now for the trust agreement 
itself — if Henry demonstrates to me that with- 
in a year — ” 

“ A year from August first. The lease don’t 
expire ’till then, and Henry won ’t be home ’till 
then. August to August’s what I’m goin’ to 
put up to him.” 

“ Correct. If he demonstrates to me that 
within the calendar year he ’s made a net profit 
of ten thousand dollars from the property — by 
the way, isn’t that rather steep?” 

“No. Man’s in there now’s made three 
thousand and manhandled it. Just horse-sense 
and some alterations and advertising’ll bring 
it up to ten.” 

“You’re the doctor. If Henry makes ten 
out of it, then he receives from me, as trustee, 
the whole residuary estate, otherwise it goes to 
your sister. And during that trial year, she 
gets the whole income from it, anyway.” 

Mr. Mix was sitting motionless as a cat. 

“That’s right.” 

“Well, then, if you’ll just read these over and 
make sure I’ve got your meaning, and then get 


34 


ROPE 


a couple of witnesses in here, we can clear the 
whole thing up and have it out of the way.” 

Mr. Mix heard the scrape of chair-legs against 
the floor, and hastily, on tiptoe, he crossed the 
room to his original seat, and in passing the 
centre table he helped himself to a magazine 
which he was reading with much concentration 
when the door of the private office opened. 

“Why, hello, Mix,” said Mr. Starkweather. 
“Been waitin’ long? Be with you in half a 
second.” 

“Just got here,” said Mr. Mix, as though 
startled. He returned the magazine to the 
table, and was still standing when his friend 
came back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Stan- 
dish, his chief assistant. 

“Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a 
will. ’ ’ 

“Anything to oblige,” said Mr. Mix, with 
alacrity. 

He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish 
and in another moment, to the lawyer. With 
due solemnity he carried out the function which 
was assigned to him; he would have loved a 
peep at the body of the documents, but already 


ROPE 


35 


he was possessed of some very interesting in- 
formation, and he kept his eyes religiously in 
the boat. Mr. Mix believed that in business and 
society, as well as in war, advance information 
is the basis of victory; and even while he was 
blotting his second signature, he was wonder- 
ing how to capitalize what he had overheard. 
No inspiration came to him; so that methodi- 
cally he stowed away the facts for reference. 

“Stay right here, Mix. That’s all, ain’t it, 
Mr. Archer?” 

“That’s all.” The lawyer was packing up 
his papers. “Good-morning, gentlemen.” He 
bowed himself away; Standish had long since 
vanished. 

Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. “Hot, 
ain’t it?” 

“You aren’t looking so very fit,” said Mr. 
Mix, critically. “Feel all right, do you?” 

Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. 
“Sure,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual 
heartiness. “I feel fine. Well, what can I do 
for you?” 

Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door 
(and to see that it latched) began with a fore- 


36 


ROPE 


word which was followed by a preface and 
then by a prelude, but he had hardly reached 
the main introduction when Mr. Starkweather 
put up his hand. “To make a long story short, 
Mix — how much do you want?” 

Mr. Mix looked pained. “Why, to tide me 
over the dull season, John, I need — let’s see — ” 
He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled 
the ante. “About five thousand.” 

Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. 
“Any security?” 

Mr. Mix smiled blandly. “What’s security 
between friends ? I ’ll give you a demand note. ’ 9 

At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drum- 
ming. “Mix, I don’t quite get you. . . . You’ve 
had a good business ; you must have made con- 
siderable money. You oughtn’t be borrowing 
from me; that’s what your bank’s for. You 
oughtn’t be borrowin’ money any way. You 
been too big a man to get in a hole like this. 
What’s wrong — business rotten?” 

“Too good,” said Mr. Mix, frankly. “It’s 
taking all my capital to carry my customers. 
And you know how tight money is.” 

“Oh, yes. Well — I guess your credit’s good 


E 0 P E 37 

for five, all right. When do you have to have 
it? Now?” 

“Any time that suits you, suits me.” 

Mr. Starkweather shook his head. “No, it 
don’t, either. When a man wants money, he 
wants it. Wants it some particular day. When 
is it?” 

“Why, if you could let me have it today, 
John, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Make out your note,” said Mr. Stark- 
weather, heavily, “Interest at six percent, semi- 
annually. I’ll have the cashier write you out 
a check.” 

Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his 
breast pocket affectionately, bestowed a pater- 
nal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr. 
Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a 
prodigious breath and slumped down in his 
chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof- 
tops. 

It was a fortnight, now, since Henry’s last 
letter. He wished that Henry would write 
oftener. He told himself that one of Henry’s 
impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the 
only efficacious antidote to Mirabelle. And he 


38 


ROPE 


needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for 
during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been 
surpassing herself. That is, if one can surpass 
a superlative. 

Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the rev- 
elation like a roan. Like a philosopher. He 
was fond of Henry personally; he had objected 
to him purely for the obvious reasons. He 
agreed, however, with Mr. Starkweather — mar- 
riage might awaken Henry to complete respon- 
sibility. Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather’s 
guaranty of it. To be sure a secret marriage 
was somewhat sensational, somewhat inde- 
corous — 

“ Humph!” Mirabelle had interrupted. “I 
don’t know who’s insulted most — you or us. 
Still I suppose you’ve got one consolation — 
and that ’s if two young fools marry each other 
instead of somebody else it only leaves just 
the two of ’em to repent at leisure instead of 
four.” 

Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his 
own and the Judge’s futile attempts at tact. 
Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well 
try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took 


EOPE 


39 


another deep breath, and gazed abstractedly out 
over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry 
would write. Henry had his defects, but the 
house was not quite livable without him. Mr. 
Starkweather was swept by an emotion which 
took him wholly by surprise and almost over- 
came him; he sat up, and began to wonder 
where he could find some occupation which 
would chink up the crevices in his thoughts, and 
prevent him from introspection. Eventually he 
hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he 
pulled himself out of his chair, and went over 
to Masonic Hall to meet his sister Mirabelle. 

She had been attending a conference of the 
Ethical Reform League, and as Mr. Stark- 
weather’s car drew in to the curb, the reformers 
were just emerging to the sidewalk. He sur- 
veyed them, disparagingly. First, there was 
a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably 
short of waist and long of skirt, who looked as 
though they had stepped directly from the files 
of Godey’s Lady’s Book; he recognized a few 
of them, and judged the others accordingly — 
these were the militants, the infantry, who bore 
the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a 


40 


ROPE 


group of younger women, and of young men — 
the men, almost without exception, wore spec- 
tacles and white washable ties. These were the 
skirmishers and the reserves. At one side, 
there was a little delegation in frock-coats and 
silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, 
he lifted his eyebrows; some of those older 
men he hadn ’t seen in public for a dozen years 
— he had forgotten that they were alive. But 
the majority of them were retired or retiring 
capitalists; men who in their day, had man- 
aged important interests, and even now con- 
trolled them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that 
life must have become very insipid to them; 
and he further reflected that their place in this 
organization must be as shock-troops. They 
would seldom go into action, but when they did, 
they had the power of consequence to give them 
an added momentum. 

His sister caught sight of him, and waved 
her hand in greeting; and this astonished him 
all the more, because since Henry’s departure, 
she had behaved towards him as though his 
character needed a bath. 

Mr. Starkweather made room for her. 


E 0 P E 41 

‘ 1 Thought I ’d give you a lift back to the house, ’ ’ 
he said. 

There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, 
and her eyes were brilliant. “John, do you 
know what I am?” 

Mr. Starkweather didn’t dare to hesitate. 
“No. What?” 

“I’m the — president,” she said, and her voice 
was trembling with pride and bewilderment. 

“President? Of the League?” 

Transfigured, she nodded again and again. 
“The nominating committee reported this 
morning. I’m the only candidate. ...” She 
stared at him and stiffened. “Of course, I 
know you aren’t interested in anything helpful 
or progressive, so I don’t expect to be con- 
gratulated. Of course not.” 

Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle 
to be joyous about it, and succeeded only in 
producing a feeble smirk. “I’ll say one thing 
— you’ve got some money represented in that 
crowd. Those old codgers. I didn’t realize 
it. . . . Well, what’s your program?” 

She unbent a little, and began to recite her 
platform, and as she skipped from plank to 


42 


ROPE 


plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and 
Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased 
in gloom. As a mere active member of the 
League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had 
made his house no more cheerful as a mauso- 
leum; and when he considered what she might 
accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweep- 
ing blue-law campaign, his imagination refused 
to take the hurdle. 

Fortunately, he wasn’t expected to say any- 
thing. His sister was making a speech. She 
didn’t stop when the car stopped, nor when 
Mr. Starkweather climbed down stiffly, and 
held open the door for her, nor even when they 
had reached the portico of the big brick house. 
He told himself, dumbly, that if the world 
would ever listen to Mirabelle, it would cer- 
tainly reform. Not necessarily in contrition, 
but in self-defence. 

And yet when he sat opposite her, at lunch, 
his expression was as calm and untroubled as 
though she had fashioned for him an ideal ex- 
istence. He was seeing a vision of Mirabelle 
as a soap-box orator ; he was seeing humorous 
stories about her in the newspapers; he was 


ROPE 


43 


shuddering at all the publicity which he knew 
would be her portion, and yet he could smile 
across the table at her, and speak in his nor- 
mal voice. Physically, he was distressed and 
joyless, but he found it easier to rise above his 
body than above his mind. His smile was a 
tribute to a dual heroism. 

“Got a little present for you,” said Mr. 
Starkweather, suddenly. He tossed a slip of 
paper to her, and watched her as she examined 
it. “There’s a string to it, though — I want 
you to hold it awhile.” 

She looked up, sceptically. “Suppose it’s 
good!” 

“Oh, it's perfectly good. Mix is all right. 
Only I don’t want you to press him for awhile. 
Not for three, four months, anyhow.” He 
pushed away his dessert, untasted. “You 
know why Pm givin’ you these little dibs and 
dabs every now and then, don’t you! So if 
anything ever happens to me, all of a sudden, 
you’ll have somethin’ to draw on. Let’s see, 
I’ve put about forty in the little trust fund 
I been buildin’ up for you, and given you 
twelve — ” He broke off abruptly: his own 


44 


EOPE 


symptoms puzzled him. As though somebody 
had tried to throttle him. 

His sister had already been sitting bolt up- 
right, but now she achieved an even greater 
rigidity. “Did you take my advice about your 
will? I don’t suppose you did.” 

“I made some changes in it this morning,” 
said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably. 

“Did you do what I told you to — about 
Henry?” 

He was struggling to keep a grip on him- 
self. “Well, no — not exactly.” 

“Oh, you didn’t?” she said tartly. “Well, 
what did you do?” 

“Mirabelle,” said her brother, “don’t you 
think that’s — just a little mite personal?” 

“Well — I should hope so. I meant it to be. 
After the way Henry’s acted, he don’t de- 
serve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from 
anybody. And if 7’ve got anything to say, he 
won’t get it, either.” 

Mr. Starkweather’s round, fat face, wore an 
expression which his sister hadn’t seen before. 
He stood up, and held the back of his chair for 
support. “Mirabelle, you haven’t got a word 


ROPE 


45 


to say about it. I’ve made some changes in my 
will, but it’s nobody’s damned business outside 
of mine.” 

She reached for her handkerchief. “John ! 
To think that you’d swear — at me — •” 

He wet his lips. “I didn’t swear at you, but 
it’s a holy wonder I don’t. I’ve stood this just 
about as long as I’m goin’ to. Henry’s my own 
flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn’t 
waste my money a minute quicker ’n you would. 
He’d do a damn sight better with it. He’d 
have a good time with it, and make everybody 
in the neighbourhood happy, and you’d burn 
it up in one of your confounded reform clubs. 
Well, all I’ve got’s a sister and a nephew, so 
I guess the money’s goin’ to be wasted anyhow. 
But one way’s as good’s another, and Henry’s 
goin’ to get a fair break, and don’t you forget 
it.” He took a glass of water from the table, 
and spilled half of it. * ‘ Don ’t you forget it. ’ ’ 

At last, she had perception. “John, you 
don’t know what you’re saying! What’s the 
matter? Are you sick?” 

He was swallowing repeatedly. “Yes, I am. 
Sick of the whole thing.” His eyes, and the 


46 


EOPE 


hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she 
went to him, but he avoided her. “No, I don’t 
want anything except to be let alone. ... Is 
the car out there ? ’ 9 

“But John — listen to me — 99 
He waved her off. “I listened to you the day 
Henry came home, Mirabelle. That’s enough 
to last me quite some time. I ain’t forgot a 
word you said — not a word. Where’s my 
hat?” He rushed past her, and out of the 
house, and left her gaping after him. 

Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish tele- 
phoned to her. 

“Miss Starkweather? . . . Your brother 
isn’t feeling any too well, and I’ve just sent 
him home. He looks to me as if he ’s in pretty 
bad shape. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to have 
your doctor there, seems to me.” 

She had the doctor there, and before the night 
was over, there was another doctor in consulta- 
tion. There were also two nurses. And to both 
doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Stark- 
weather, who knew his destiny, whispered the 
same message at intervals of fifteen minutes. 
“Don’t have Henry come back — don’t have 


ROPE 


47 


Henry come back — no sense his cornin’ back ’till 
August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want 
him to stay over there — ’till August.” 

And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr. 
Starkweather, who hadn’t stirred a muscle for 
several hours, suddenly tried to sit up. 

“ Postman!” said Mr. Starkweather, with 
much difficulty. 

He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and 
when they put it into his hands, he smiled and 
was content. He hadn’t the strength to open 
it, and he wouldn’t let anyone else touch it; he 
was satisfied to know that Henry had written. 
And after that, there was nothing worth wait- 
ing for. 


i 


CHAPTER IV 


I T never occurred to Henry, when he came 
home in late July, to take his wife to the 
big brick house which had been his uncle ’s. He 
didn’t know whether the house would go to Aunt 
Mirabelle or to himself, and for the time being, 
it was immaterial; Aunt Mirabelle was wel- 
come to possession of it, undisturbed. Except 
for his uncle, there would have been open war- 
fare between them long ago ; now that the arbi- 
trator was gone, war was inevitable, but Henry 
wouldn’t fight on sacred ground. He preferred 
to accept the hospitality of Judge Barklay. The 
Judge’s house was a third the size, and not the 
least prepossessing, and there really wasn’t 
room for the young Devereuxs in it, but as soon 
as you stepped inside the door, you knew that 
you were welcome. 

He was sorry for his aunt, and he went to see 
her immediately, but even in this new situation, 
she let him know that she disapproved of him 

48 


ROPE 


49 


thoroughly and permanently. She wasn't rec- 
onciled to his marriage; she didn't care to re- 
ceive Anna ; she implied that regardless of Mr. 
Starkweather's express wishes, Henry was a 
stony-hearted ingrate for remaining so long 
abroad. To be sure, his presence at home 
would have served no purpose whatsoever, but 
Mirabelle was firm in her opinion. More than 
that, she succeeded in making Henry feel that 
by his conduct he had hurried his uncle into an 
untimely grave; she didn't say this flatly, nor 
yet by innuendo, but she managed to convey it 
through the atmosphere. 

“Of course," she said, “you've been to call 
on Mr. Archer, haven 't you ? ' ' 

Henry flushed indignantly. “I hadn't even 
thought about it." 

“Well, when you do, you'll hear some fine 
news." Her lip curled. “Your friend Bob 
Standish's bought the business. Some of it, 
anyway. Bought it on a shoestring's my guess, 
— but he's bought it." 

“I didn't know it, Aunt Mirabelle." 

“Well, they only closed the deal a few days 
ago." 


50 


ROPE 


“Good for Bob!” He was thinking that if 
honest toil were demanded of him, nothing 
could be more pleasant than an alliance with 
this same Standish. His uncle had always of- 
fered up Standish, subtly, as an illustration of 
what Henry himself ought to be. And it was a 
tribute to the mutual affection of all three men 
that Henry had never been irritated at Mr. 
Starkweather, nor resentful towards his friend. 
On the contrary, he admitted that unless he 
were himself, he would rather be Standish 
than anyone else. He wondered if his uncle 
could have planned for him so delightful a pen- 
nance as a year or two of happy servitude under 
Bob. He must see Bob and congratulate him. 
Only twenty-seven, and the head of the most 
important concern of its type in several coun- 
ties. 

Aunt Mirabelle sniffed. “Good for nothing . 
He’s most as scatter-brained as you are.” 

Henry declined the combat, and after she 
sensed his intention, she went on, with increas- 
ing acridity. 

“The rest of the whole estate’s tied up for 
a year in a trust, to see what you’re going to 


KOPE 


51 


do with some piece of property he deeded to 
you just before he died, but Mr. Archer 
wouldn’t tell me much about it ’till you came 
home. I suppose it’s part of the business — 
some department of it. If you can make ten 
thousand dollars out of it, you ’re to have every- 
thing. All I get ’s a few thousand outright, and 
what John gave me in a little separate fund, 
and a year’s income from the whole estate. I 
suppose you think that’s perfectly fair and 
right and just. Naturally, you would.” 

In his present mood, Henry was immune to 
astonishment. “I don’t believe it’s up to me 
to criticize Uncle John, whatever he did.” 

“Not under the circumstances, no. You’ve 
got some piece of property — I don ’t know what 
it is; he didn’t tell me; Z’m only his sister — 
and he’s fixed things so it’s just a gamble for 
you. You’re going to do the gambling; and I 
sit back and fold my hands and wait a year to 
see whether you get everything, or I do. Even 
this house.” 

“What’s that?” 

She made a deprecating gesture. “Oh, yes, 
if you aren’t a good enough gambler, then 1 


52 


ROPE 


come into everything. It puts me in such a 
sweet position, doesn’t it? So comfortable for 
me.” Her smile was bitter; she was recalling 
what her brother had said to her at lunch, on 
that final day — that he wouldn’t listen to her, 
because already he had heard the worst that she 
had to say. Originally, as she knew, he had 
intended to bequeath Henry a fourth of his 
property, and herself the remainder; and she 
knew that by her too vigorous indictment of 
Henry she had egged her brother into a state 
of mind which, regardless of the cause of it, 
she still considered to be unfathomable. The 
memory galled her, and so did the possibility 
of Henry’s triumph. ‘ ‘ Well,” she said, “I 
wish you every happiness and success, Henry. 
I suppose you feel in your conscience you de- 
serve it, don’t you?” 

When he left her, he was aware that the last 
tie had been severed. 


His friend Bob Standish was a young man 
who in the past ten years had achieved many 


ROPE 


53 


different kinds of success by the reason that 
mere acquaintances, as well as strangers, in- 
variably underestimated him. For one thing, 
his skin was so tender, his eyes so blue and in- 
nocent, his mouth so wide and sensitive, his 
forehead so white and high, that he gave the 
impression of almost childish simplicity and 
ingenuousness. For another thing, he dressed 
with such meticulous regard for the fashion, 
and he moved about with such indolent amia- 
bility, that his clothes and his manners dis- 
tracted attention from what was underneath. 

And so, at college, a full battalion of kindly 
sophomores had volunteered to teach him 
poker, and couldn’t understand why the profits 
went not to the teacher, but to the pupil. Im- 
mature professors, who liked to score off idlers 
and fat-brained sons of plutocrats, had selected 
him as the perfect target, and some of them had 
required several terms to realize that Stand- 
ish, always baby-eyed, beau-attired and appar- 
ently dreaming of far distant things, was 
never lower in rank than the top twenty of his 
class. Out on the Field, visiting ends and 
tackles, meeting him for the first tkne, had 


54 


ROPE 


nearly laughed in his face, and prepared* to 
slaughter him, only to discover, with alarm 
and horror which steadily increased from the 
first whistle to the last, that Standish could ex- 
plode his muscles with such a burst of dy- 
namic energy that his hundred and sixty 
pounds felt like two hundred and ten. It was 
equally discouraging to learn, from breathless 
experience, that when he was in his stride he 
was as unpursueable as a coyote; and that he 
could diagnose the other fellow’s tactics even 
before the other fellow had quite decided what 
to do next. 

In commerce, he had merely continued the 
same species of career ; and by virtue of being 
thoroughly depreciated, and even pitied, by 
his customers, he had risen in six years from 
the grade of city insurance solicitor to that 
of Mr. Starkweather’s principal assistant. 
And now, as casually as he had ever raked in a 
jack-pot from the bewildered sophomores, he 
had bought the Starkweather business, and not 
on a shoestring, either, as Mirabelle had sus- 
pected. 


ROPE 


55 


He had roomed with Henry at college; he 
had been his inseparable companion, out of 
office hours, ever since; he knew him too well 
to proffer any trite condolence. But his sym- 
pathy was firm and warm in his fingers when 
he shook hands and Henry got the message. 

“Thought probably you’d rather not have 
me at the train,” said Standish, “so I didn’t 
come. Right or wrong ?” 

“Right, Bob . . . Allow smoking in your 
sanctum?” 

“Don’t allow anybody not to smoke. What 
are you doing — borrowing or offering?” 

Henry glanced at Standish ’s brand. “Nei- 
ther one. Every man for himself — and you’ve 
got vile taste. Well, I hear you’re the big 
boss around here. Please, mister, gimme a 
job?” 

“Nothing I’d like better,” said Standish. 
“I’ve got just the thing for you. Sit over on 
the window-sill and be a lily. Flowers brighten 
up an office so.” 

“You basely misjudge me. Didn’t you know 
I’m going to work?” 


56 


ROPE 


Standish’s eyes were round and guileless. 
‘ ‘ See any sea-serpents on your way over ? I ’ve 
heard there are such things.” 

“Fact, though, I am. And you know it, too. 
I’m hoping it’s here.” 

His friend shook his head. “Not here, 
Henry. ’ ’ 

“No?” 

“No, and I’m sorry. I’d make you clean ink- 
wells and say ‘sir,’ and you’d get to be almost 
as democratic as I am. . . . Haven’t you seen 
Archer?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Why not?” 

“Oh, just squeamish, I suppose. You sort of 
hate to think of the — cash end of it.” 

“That’s right, too. But as long as you’re in 
the building, you ’d better drop in there. From 
all the talk there is, you’ve picked up a mys- 
tery. ’ ’ 

“Mystery? In what way?” 

“Not for me to say. Go find out. And say — 
you and Anna come and dine with me tonight, 
will you? I just want to have you all to myself. 
Mind?” 


ROPE 


57 


“Not noticeably. ’ ’ 

“Good. Seven o’clock. Now get out of here 
and see Archer. 'Come back afterwards, if yon 
want to; but do that first.” 

As if from pressure of business, he projected 
Harry into the corridor ; and then, meditatively, 
he returned to his desk. Young Mr. Standish 
had watched his employer very closely, during 
those last few days, and in witnessing Mr. 
Starkweather’s will, he had sensed, intuitively, 
that it contained a stick of dynamite for Henry. 


Mr. Archer, who had known Henry since the 
Fauntleroy days, greeted him with the proper 
mixture of repression and cordiality. “But 
I’m afraid,” owned Mr. Archer, “I’m afraid 
you’re going to be a little disappointed.” 

Henry shook his head. “Then you’ve sized 
me up all wrong, ’ ’ he said, much subdued. ‘ 4 Be- 
cause no matter what I get, I’m going to be sat- 
isfied that Uncle John wanted me to have it. 
Besides, I’ve apparently got to hump myself, or 
I don’t get anything at all. Aunt Mirabelle 


58 


ROPE 


gave me some idea of it — I’d thought it was 
probably an interest in the business, but Bob 
Standish says it isn’t.” 

“No, it’s a building. 361 Main Street. But 
it’s rather more than a mere building; it is a 
business. It’s leased until next Monday; after 
that it’s yours to operate. The deed’s recorded 
now. It’s yours outright. Did your aunt tell 
you what the conditions are ? ’ ’ 

“All or nothing?” 

“Yes. Oh, he made a separate provision for 
Miss Starkweather ; she ’ll never go hungry ; but 
the bulk of the estate depends on what you do 
with the business in the next year. And strictly 
between ourselves, your uncle expected you to 
finish with a bit to spare. ” 

“I know this much; if it’s anything he doped 
out for me, it’s an even bet. It’s to make ten 
thousand dollars?” 

“Yes, and without any outside help except 
straight commercial loans — if you can get ’em. 
No favours from anybody, and no free keep 
from your families.” 

“What building is it, Mr. Archer?” 

The lawyer paused to wipe his glasses. 


ROPE 


59 


“It's one your uncle took over on a mortgage 
last winter. . . . You see, Henry, he’d figured 
out what he was going to do with you, and it 
would have been this same thing even if he’d 
lived. He picked out what he thought would do 
you the most good — get you in touch with 
different people — break down some of your (ex- 
cuse me for being blunt) class prejudice — teach 
you how many dimes there are in a dollar. 
And for that reason he expressly stipulated 
that you’ve got to keep your own books. 
That’ll give you more of a respect for money 
than anything else would, I guess.” 

“Keep my own books?” 

“That’s the way Mr. Starkweather began — 
only in his case, he kept somebody else ’s. But 
I warned you to expect something out of the 
ordinary. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes,” said* Henry. “I was all set for 
some kind of a low-brow job. What is it — a 
garage?” 

“I’m afraid you’ll think a garage is fash- 
ionable, compared with it.” 

Henry looked serious. “361 Main? I don’t 
seem to — What on earth is it, Mr. Archer?” 


60 


ROPE 


“Go down and look at it. Only don’t be 
shocked, Henry ; because it ’s exactly what he ’d 
have given you to do, anyway. And then let 
me know what your plans are, will you? By 
the way — have you any money of your own ? ’ ’ 

Henry looked pained. “I’m down to a 
couple of hundred. Why?” 

“Then you’d better not waste any time. Go 
on down and look it over this morning, and let 
me know. ’ ’ 

“Why — let you know what?” 

“ Whether you’re going to take the dare.” 

Henry’s lips twitched. “Nobody ever beat 
me by default yet, Mr. Archer.” 

“Just the same, I wish you’d let me know 
definitely — won’t you? Of course, if you 
shouldn’t feel inclined to go ahead on your 
uncle’s plan — and that would disappoint me — 
you could simply sell out. I hope you won’t, 
though. I hope very much indeed that you 
won’t. But — go look at it. And one last 
thing, Henry; your uncle put the thing in this 
shape so that too many people wouldn ’t be gos- 
siping about it. I mean, if you and your aunt 


ROPE 61 

don ’t tell — nobody will. That ’s all — but let me 
know. ’ ’ 

Obediently, Henry proceeded down Main 
Street to the 300 block. His curiosity was 
active, but he was warning himself to be on 
guard, for his uncle’s sentences, although in- 
variably fair and invariably appropriate, were 
also founded on a solid base of humour and sur- 
prise. Henry remembered what Mr. Stark- 
weather had said about coming home to eat 
crow, and what Mr. Archer had said about the 
comparative aristocracy of a garage, and he 
prepared himself for a thunderstroke, and got a 
laugh ready. That book-keeping provision was 
really clever; Uncle John had palpably framed 
it up to keep Henry on the job. But Henry 
would outwit the provision. A few lessons in a 
commercial-school, a modem card-system, and 
he could handle the books of any small business 
in no time at all, as per the magazine advertise- 
ments. Of course, the crow and the garage 
were merely symbols ; but whatever the 
business might be, and however distasteful, 
there was only a year of it, and after that (so 


62 


EOPE 


confident was Henry) there was a lifetime of 
luxury. He was rather glad that his penance 
came first; it would serve to make the enjoy- 
ment of his wealth so much more zestful. He 
should always feel as though he had worked for 
it, instead of having it handed out to him on a 
platter, regardless of his personal deserts. 
Yes, he would work faithfully, and because the 
task would be within his capabilities, (for Mr. 
Starkweather was sane and practical, and Mr. 
Archer had prophesied a finish with something 
to spare) he would end his probation in a blaze 
of glory, and Anna would be proud of him, 
Judge Barklay would approve of him, and Aunt 
Mirabelle would have to revise her estimate of 
him. Altogether, it was a fine arrangement, 
provided that his business, whatever it was, 
wouldn’t entirely prevent him from keeping up 
with the procession, socially, and playing 
enough golf to hold his present form. 

He had passed 331 and 341 and 351 and his 
heart began to beat more rapidly. This was 
almost as exciting as a Christmas stocking in 
the Fauntleroy days. His eyes were searching 


ROPE 


63 


among the numbers; there was a four-story 
office building (335) and an automobile agency 
(339) . . . and next to that — . . . . Henry 
halted, and the laugh dried up in his throat. 
He had been prepared for anything but the 
reality. The ark of his fortunes was a shabby 
little motion-picture theatre. 

Gasping, he looked up again at the number, 
and when he realized that he had made no mis- 
take, his knees turned to gelatine, and he stood 
staring, fascinated, numbed. His eyes wan- 
dered blankly from the crumbling ticket-booth 
to the unkempt lobby and back to the lurid bill- 
ing — the current attraction was a seven-reel 
thriller entitled “What He Least Expected / ’ 
but Henry missed the parallel. With trembling 
fingers he produced a cigarette, but in his daze 
he blew out two matches in succession. He 
crushed the cigarette in his palm, and moved a 
few steps towards the lobby. Great Heaven, 
was it possible that John Starkweather had con- 
demmed Henry the fashionable, Henry the 
clubable, Henry the exclusive to a year of this ? 
Was this his punishment for the past? Was 


64 


ROPE 


this the price of his future? This picayune 
sordidness, and vulgarity and decay? Evi- 
dently, it was so intended, and so ordered. 

His power of reason was almost atrophied. 
He struggled to understand his uncle’s pur- 
pose; his uncle’s logic. To break down his 
class prejudice, and teach him the dimes in a 
dollar, and put him on the level of a working- 
man? All that could have been accomplished 
by far less drastic methods. It could have been 
accomplished by a tour of duty with Bob. To 
he sure, Mr. Starkweather had promised him 
the meanest job in the directory, but Henry had 
put it down as a figure of speech. Now, he was 
faced with the literal interpretation of it, and 
ahead of him there was a year of trial, and then 
all or nothing. 

He succeeded in lighting a fresh cigarette, 
hut he couldn’t taste it. Previously he had 
paid his forfeits with the best of good-nature, 
but his previous forfeits hadn’t obliged him to 
declass himself . They hadn ’t involved his wife. 
He hadn’t married Anna to drag her down to 
this. It would stand them in a social pillory, 
targets for those who had either admired them 


ROPE 65 

or envied them. It would make them the most 
conspicuous pair in the whole community : 
older people would point to them as an illustra- 
tion of justice visited on blind youth, and would 
chuckle to observe Henry in the process of re- 
ceiving his come-uppance : the younger set 
would quake with merriment and poor jokes 
and -sly allusions to Henryk ancient grandeur. 
Even Bob Standish would have to hide his 
amusement ; why, Bob himself had made society 
and success his fetiches. And Anna — Anna 
who was so ambitious for him — how could she 
endure the status of a cheap showman’s wife? 

And even if she had been willing to ally him- 
self with such a business, how could he con- 
ceivably make ten thousand dollars out of it in a 
single year? Ten? It would take a genius to 
make five. An inexperienced man, with luck, 
might make two or three. He couldn’t afford 
to hire a trained man to manage it foi* him : the 
place was too small to support such a man, and 
still to net any appreciable profit. Mr. Stark- 
weather had undoubtedly foreseen this very 
fact — foreseen that Henry couldn’t sit back as 
a magnate, and pile responsibility on a paid 


66 


ROPE 


employe. To reach his quota, Henry would 
have to get in all over, and act as his own 
manager, and take the resulting publicity and 
the social isolation. But the business was im- 
possible, the quota was impossible, the entire 
project from first to last was unthinkable. His 
uncle, whether by accident or design, had 
virtually disowned him. There was no other 
answer. 

His laugh came back to him, but there was no 
hilarity in it. It was merely an expression of 
his helplessness; it was tragedy turned inside 
out. Yet he felt no resentment towards his 
uncle, but rather an overwhelming, pity. He 
felt no resentment towards his friend Standish, 
who had bought out the perfectly respectable 
business which Mr. Starkweather might so 
easily have left to Henry. Mr. Starkweather 
had schemed to bring about a certain reaction, 
and he had overplayed his hand. Instead of 
firing Henry with a new ardour for success, he 
had convinced him of the futility of endeavour. 
He had set a standard so high, and chosen a 
medium so low, that he had defeated his own 
object. 


ROPE 


67 


The next step — why, it was to chart his life 
all over again. It was to dispose of this ridicu- 
lous property, and begin to make a living for 
Anna. And there was no time to lose, either, 
for Henry ’s checking balance was about to slide 
past the vanishing point. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to 
meet the gravely sympathetic eyes of Mr. 
Theodore Mix. 


Mr. Mix was fresh from an interview with 
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather. Her acquaint- 
ance with him was slight, but from a distance 
she had always esteemed him, partly for his 
mature good-looks, and partly for the distin- 
guished manner which had always been a large 
fraction of his stock-in-trade, and was now to be 
listed among his principal assets. Her esteem, 
however, applied to him merely as an indivi- 
dual, and not as a debtor. 

U I wanted to see you about a note,” she said, 
primly. “A five thousand dollar demand note 
you gave my brother four months ago. He 


68 ROPE 

endorsed it over to me, and I wanted to see yon 
about it.” 

Mr. Mix allowed bis month to widen in a 
smile which was disarmingly benevolent. The 
horse at Bowie had proved dark indeed, — so 
dark that it had still been merged with the back- 
ground when the winner passed the judge’s 
stand — and this colour-test had cost Mr. Mix 
precisely two thousand dollars. Beyond that, 
he had paid off a few of his most pressing 
creditors, and he had spent a peculiarly care- 
free week in New York (where he had also 
taken a trifling flyer in cotton, and made a dis- 
astrous forced landing) so that there was 
practically nothing but his smile between him- 
self and bankruptcy. Yet Mr. Mix beamed, 
with almost ecclesiastical poise, upon the 
holder of his demand note, and tried her with 
honey. 

“ Ordinarily, I’m embarrassed to talk busi- 
ness with a woman,” said Mr. Mix. “I’m so 
conscious of the — what shall I say? — of a 
woman’s disadvantage in a business interview. 
But in your case, Miss Starkweather, when your 


E 0 P E 69 

executive ability is so well known and so uni- 
versally praised — ” 

She nodded, and took it without discount, but 
she wasn’t distracted from her purpose. “I 
hope it’s convenient for you to pay it, Mr. 
Mix . 9 9 

“If it weren’t convenient,” said Mr. Mix, 
soothingly, “I should make it convenient. 
When the sister of my oldest friend — a man 
who once sat at the same desk with me, when 
we were young clerks together — when his 
sister is in need of funds, I — ” 

“ ’T isn’t that,” she said, quickly. “I want 
this money for some special reason.” 

He inclined his head slightly. “One of your 
favourite charities, I have no doubt. But what- 
ever the reason, the obligation is the same. 
Now, let’s see — I’ll have to sell some securities 
— when must you have it?” 

“Next Tuesday.” 

Inwardly, Mr. Mix was startled, but out- 
wardly he looked grieved. “Tuesday? Now 
: — that is — wait a minute.” He created the 
impression that he was juggling vast affairs, in 


70 


ROPE 


order to gratify a whim of his old friend’s 
sister. As a matter of fact, he was wondering 
what plausible excuse he could give without re- 
vealing any hint of the truth. “Is Tuesday 
imperative f 9 9 

1 ‘ Tuesday by ten o ’clock in the morning. ’ ’ 

His face cleared.. “You’ve shared a secret 
with me,” said Mr. Mix, and although he spoke 
aloud, his attitude was as though he were 
whispering. “Because I happen to know that 
every Tuesday at ten o’clock there’s a meeting 
of a — a certain organization of which you ’re the 
illustrious president. Needless to say, I refer 
to the Ethical Reform League.” He lowered 
his voice. ‘ ‘ I ask your pardon for the intrusion 
of anything of such a delicately personal 
nature, Miss Starkweather, but I must tell you 
that when a person, such as yourself, even in the 
midst of inconsolable sorrow, can’t forget that 
great principles and great institutions can 
never perish, but are immortal, and go on for- 
ever — that’s true nobility of character, Miss 
Starkweather, and I honour you for it. ’ ’ 

She touched her eyes with her handkerchief. 


ROPE 


71 


“ Thank you, Mr. Mix. Yes, I intend to make a 
contribution to our League — in memory of my 
brother. You’re — familiar with our League?” 

He gestured effectively. “ Familiar with it? 
You might as well ask me if I’m familiar with 
the Emancipation Proclamation — the Magna 
Charta.” And this was accurate; his knowl- 
edge of all three was based on hearsay evidence. 

“And are you at all in sympathy with it?” 

“My dear lady! I was one of the pioneer 
supporters of suffrage in this region. I — ” 

“Yes, I know that, and I know your work in 
the Associated Charities, and in your church, 
but — how did you vote on prohibition?” 

He side-stepped with great agility. “How 
would any man of my calibre vote?” 

“True, true.” She was becoming animated. 

“But we’ve tremendous problems yet to 
solve. ... Do you believe in enforcing the 
laws, Mr. Mix? The Sunday laws especially?” 

Mr. Mix picked up his cue, and gave thanks 
for the diversion. “Dear lady, I am a citizen. 
As a citizen, I help to make the laws; they’re 
made by all of us for our own good. Show me 


72 


EOPE 


a man who doesn’t believe in enforcing the laws, 
and I won’t argue with him — I couldn’t count 
on his sincerity.” 

“It’s a pleasure to talk to a man like you,” 
she said. “I wonder if you agree with our 
other ideals. Er — what do you think about 
dancing?” 

He had a good phrase which he had been 
saving up for six weeks. “Dancing,” he said, 
“is popular because it’s so conspicuously inno- 
cent, and so warmly satisfactory to the guilty. ’ ’ 

“Good! Good! How about tobacco?” 

This, too, he side-stepped. “It’s a poison, 
so the doctors say. Who am I to put any opin- 
ion against theirs ? ’ ’ 

She was regarding him earnestly, and a little 
perplexedly. 

“How is it, when in spirit you’re one of us, 
you’ve never joined the League?” 

“I-I’ve never been invited,” said Mr. Mix, 
somewhat taken aback. 

“Then I invite you,” she said, promptly. 
“And I know you’ll accept. It’s men like you 
we need — men with some backbone ; prominent, 
useful citizens. You sit right there. I’ve got 


ROPE 


73 


an application blank in my desk. Read it 
over when yon get home, and sign it and mail it 
to me.” 

“I appreciate the distinction of your asking 
me,” said Mr. Mix, with supreme deference. 
“And if you have time, I wish you’d tell me 
what your aims are. I am very deeply inter- 
ested.” 

He stayed another half hour, and the con- 
versation never swerved from the entertaining 
subject of reform. Mr. Mix was insufferably 
bored, and cumulatively restless, but he was 
convinced that he was making headway, so that 
he kept his mind relentlessly on the topic, and 
dispensed honey by the shovelful. When he 
prepared to leave, he tested out his conviction, 
and reminded her gently: “Now, in regard to 
that note — ” 

Mirabelle was blinded by her own visionings, 
and deafened by her own eloquence. “Well, 
we ’ll have to take that up again — But you come 
to the meeting Tuesday, anyhow. And here’s 
one of our pamphlets for you to look at in the 
meantime. ’ ’ 

As he went down the steps, •she was watching 


74 


ROPE 


him, from the ambush of lace window-curtains, 
and she was saying to herself: “Such a nice 
man — so influential, too. ... Now if I could 
get him persuaded over — ” 

Mr. Mix, strolling nonchalantly downtown, 
was also talking to himself, and his conclusions 
would have astonished her. “What I’ve got to 
do,” said Mr. Mix, thoughtfully, “is to string 
the old dame along until I can raise five 
thousand bucks. But where’s it coming 
from?” 

Then, squarely in front of the Orpheum 
Theatre, he met Henry Devereux. 


“Good-morning, Henry,” said Mr. Mix, 
soberly. “First time I’ve had a chance to 
speak to you since. ...” He coughed dis- 
creetly. “I don’t believe I need to say that if 
there’s anything I can do for you at any time, 
all you ’ve got to do is to say so. ’ ’ 

Privately, Henry had always considered Mr. 
Mix as a genial poseur, but he knew that Mr. 
Mix belonged to the Citizens Club, which was 


ROPE 


75 


the local standard, and that for thirty years he 
had been on rather intimate business relations 
with Mr. Starkweather. This was sufficient 
recommendation for Henry, in the swirl of his 
agitation, to loose his tongue. 

“All right,’ ’ he said. “Tell me how soon I 
can sell this overgrown magic-lantern outfit — 
and what I can get for it — and where I can 
put the money to bring in the biggest income — 
and where I can get a good job.” 

Now all this was intended to be purely in the 
nature of a rhetorical question: for naturally, 
if Henry decided to sell, he would want Bob 
Standish to handle the transaction for him, 
and to get the commission: and also, if Henry 
had to find employment, he would go to his 
friend, and be sure of a cordial reception. But 
Mr. Mix took it literally. 

Mr. Mix started, and his memory began to un- 
fold. It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt 
out: “And lose your shot at the estate?” but 
he restrained himself. He wasn’t supposed to 
know the circumstances, and as a matter of fact, 
as he realized with a thrill of relish, he was 
probably the only outsider who did know the 


76 


ROPE 


circumstances. “Why,” said Mr. Mix. “Do 
you own the Orpheum? Well, I should say off- 
hand it’s worth a good deal. Twenty thousand. 
The land, you know: the building’s no good.” 

Henry nodded impatiently. “Yes, but who ’d 
buy it?” 

“Well, now, about that — of course, I’m not a 
real estate man — but you could certainly trade 
it.” 

“What for?” 

Mr. Mix caught the note of sincerity in 
Henry’s voice, and Mr. Mix thought rapidly. 
He appeared to deliberate, to waver, to burn his 
bridges. “Well — say for a third interest in 
Theodore Mix and Company. ’ ’ 

Henry stared. “Are you serious?” 

Mr. Mix almost fell over backwards. “Why, 
yes. It’s sudden, but . . . why, yes. I could 
use more capital, and I want a crack salesman. 
I’ll trade — if you’re quick on the trigger. I’ve 
got two or three people interested so far, but 
when it’s yon — ” 

Henry took him by the arm. “Come on over 
to the Citizens Club, then, and we ’ll talk about 
it.” 


CHAPTER Y 


W HEN Henry went home to his wife and 
his father-in-law, he was confident that 
he had a very fine bargain ; when he told them 
what he had heard from his aunt and Mr. 
Archer, what he had seen with his own eyes, and 
what he had done with Mr. Mix, he expected 
first, sympathy, and afterwards, unqualified ap- 
proval. Within the next five minutes, however, 
Henry was sitting limp and baffled ; and wishing 
that he had Bob Standish to support him. 
Bob, at least, would understand. 

“Holy Smoke !” he said, weakly. “7 didn’t 
suppose you ’d take it like that ! Why, I — I feel 
as if I’d been run over by a steam-roller with 
Taft at the wheel!” 

Judge Barklay had long since forgiven his 
daughter, but he hadn’t quite forgiven Henry. 
“Do you want my honest opinion? I should 
say you’re suffering from two extreme causes 
— exaggerated ego and cold feet.” 

77 


78 


ROPE 


Henry flushed. He had the most profound 
respect for Judge Barklay — a man who had 
preferred to be a city magistrate, and to be 
known throughout the whole state for his 
wisdom and humanity, instead of keeping up 
his law practice, at five times the income — and 
Henry, like every one else, valued the Judge’s 
opinions. “You don’t mean you think I’d run 
the miserable little peanut-stand, do you ? And 
keep books on it as if it had been the Federal 
Reserve Bank?” 

“It strikes me,” said the Judge, “that both 
of us would rather have you run a peanut-stand 
than — I ’m using your own analogy — than spend 
your whole life eating peanuts. Why, Henry, 
your uncle wanted you to be shocked — wanted 
you to be mad enough to stand up on your hind 
legs and fight. ’ ’ 

Henry looked at his wife. “What are you 
going to suggest ? Hire a snake-charmer and a 
wild-man-from-Borneo and an infant pachy- 
derm and a royal ring-tailed gyasticutus, and 
pull oft a side-show after the main tent’s 
closed?” 


ROPE 79 

“Oh, Henry! Can’t yon see what a lark it 
would be I” 

“Lark?” he repeated, hazily. “Lark? 
You’ve got the wrong bird. It’s crow.” 

“No, but Henry dear, you aren’t going to be 
a quitter, are you ? ’ ’ 

“Wife of my bosom, do you realize what 
you’re talking about? It would cost a 
thousand dollars just to make the place clean. 
It’ll cost three or four more to make it at- 
tractive enough to get anybody inside of it. 
And I haven’t got the price.” 

“What’s the matter with a mortgage?” de- 
manded the Judge. “And you’ve got a car, 
haven’t you? You’ve got a saddle-horse. 
You’ve got all kinds of junk you can turn into 
money. ’ ’ 

“On a wild gamble? Why, Anna, we 
couldn’t stay on here with the Judge — that 
would be getting help I ’m not allowed to have — 
we ’d have to go live in some cheap apartment ; 
we couldn’t even have a maid for awhile; we 
couldn’t entertain anybody; we couldn’t 
have any outside pleasures; I’d have to work 


80 


ROPE 


like a dog; you know what the crowd on the 
hill would say — and then I’m beaten before 
I start anyway. Quitter! You wouldn’t call a 
man a quitter if he stayed out of a hurdle race 
because he ’d broken a leg, would you ? ’ 1 

“Well,” said Anna, “I’m willing to live in 
such a cheap apartment that the landlord calls 
it a flat . And you can’t get any servants these 
days; there aren’t any. And who cares about 
entertaining? And for outside pleasures, why 
couldn’t we go to the Orpheum?” They all 
laughed, but Anna was the first to stop. “I’ll 
work just as hard as you will, Henry. I’ll peel 
potatoes and wash the sink — ” She glanced, 
ruefully, at her hands — “and if it’ll help you, 
I — I’d sell tickets or be an usher or play the 
piano. Why, Henry, it would be a circus — and 
we wouldn’t need any snake-charmers, either.” 

“ And an education,” said Judge Barklay. 

“And a gold-mine for us — in just one little 
year. We could do it; I know we could.” 

“And if the stupid fool who’s had it this last 
year could make money out of it,” added the 
Judge, “and you used any intelligence on it, 
you’d come out ahead. John made up his 


E 0 P E 81 

figures very carefully. That’s the kind of man 
he was.” 

Henry stared at them alternately. 4 ‘But if 
I did fall down — ” 

“Henry!” The Judge was using a profes- 
sional gesture. “What do you suppose your 
time is worth, at its present market value? 
Don’t you think you can afford to risk a year of 
it against half a million dollars?” 

“But when I’ve practically closed with 
Mix — ” 

“Sign any agreement?” 

“No, he’s having one typed.” 

The judge breathed in relief. “You’re 
lucky. You’d lose money if you took a third 
interest for a gift, and if you took all of it as a 
gift you’d lose three times as much. Because 
you’d have to assume your share of his 
liabilities. People think he’s got money, but 
he hasn’t; he’s broke. He must have picked 
you for a life preserver.” 

Henry’s jaw dropped. “What makes you 
think so?” 

‘ ‘ I don ’t think so ; I know so. Oh, he ’s pretty 
shifty on his feet, and he’s got a good many 


82 


EOPE 


people hoodwinked — your uncle always gave 
him too much credit, incidentally — but his New 
York correspondents happened to be clients of 
mine when I was practising law, and they’ve 
both asked me about him and told me about him, 
inside of the last six weeks.’ ’ 

Henry sat unblinking “Is that — a fact!” 

“And if you wanted to sell out,” continued 
the Judge, with a trifle of asperity, “why on 
earth didn’t you go to Bob Standish? Why 
didn’t you go to an expert? And why didn’t 
you have an audit made of Mix’s company — 
why didn’t you get a little information — why 
didn’t you know what you were buying? Oh, 
it isn ’t too late, if you haven ’t signed anything, 
but — Henry, it looks to me as if you need a 
guardian ! ’ ’ 

At the sight of his face, Anna went over to 
him, and perched on the arm of his chair. 
“That’s enough, Dad. . . . Z'm his guardian; 
aren’t I, dear? And he’s just upset and dizzy 
and I don’t blame him a bit. We won’t say 
another word about it ; we ’ve told him what we 
think ; and tonight he can have a long talk with 


ROPE 


83 


Bob. You’d want to do that, wouldn’t you, 
Henry? Of course you would. You wish 
you’d done it before. You’re feeling awfully 
ashamed of yourself for being so hasty. And 
snobbish. I know you. ’ ’ 

Henry looked across at the Judge. “ Might 
as well have my brains where my hair is, 
mightn’t I? She sees it just as easy. . . . All 
right; we’ll let the whole thing ride ’till I’ve 
seen Bob.” 

His friend Standish, gazing with childlike 
solemnity out of his big blue eyes, listened to 
both sides of the story, and to Henry’s miscal- 
culation, at no time during the recital did he 
laugh uproariously, or exclaim compassion- 
ately, or indicate that he shared any of Henry ’s 
conclusions : 

“Oh, yes,” he said, “people might giggle a 
bit. But they always giggle at a man’s first 
shot at business, anyway. Like his first pair 
of long trousers. It’s done. But how many 
times will they do it? A thousand? Ten 
thousand? A hundred thousand? At maybe 
seven dollars a giggle? For less than that, I’d 


84 ROPE 

be a comedian. I’d be a contortionist. I’d be 
a pie-thrower. Henry, old rubbish, you do 
what they tell you to. ’ ’ 

“ Would you do it if you were in my place!” 
“ Would I lie down like a yellow dog, and let 
people say I hadn’t sand enough to stop a wrist- 
watch ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I know, but Bob — the Orpheum ! ’ ’ 

“I know, but Henry — don’t you sort of owe 
it to Mr. Starkweather! You wouldn’t have 
put on this milk-fed expression if he’d soaked it 
to you himself, would you ! ’ ’ 

At this precise instant, Henry was required 
on the telephone. It was his Aunt Mirabelle; 
and even if he had been dining with royalty, she 
would still have called him — if she could have 
got the address. 

‘ ‘ Henry,” she said acidly. “I’ve just found 
out what kind of a building it was your uncle 
deeded you. Theodore Mix told me. I didn’t 
'know your uncle was ever messed up in that 
kind of a thing. He never told me. Good 
reason he didn’t, too. I certainly hope you 
aren’t going to spread this news around town, 
Henry — it’s scandalous enough to have it in 


ROPE 


85 


the family, even. Of all the hellish influences 
we’ve got to contend with in this day and 
generation — ” 

“Well,” said Henry, “it isn’t any of it my 
fault, is it?” 

“That remains to be seen. Are you going 
to run that — dive?” 

“Why, — I don’t know. If I didn’t — ” 

“Oh, yes, you’re probably thinking how 
selfish I am. You wouldn’t recognize a pure 
motive if you met one in the street. But to 
think of a Devereux — almost the same thing as 
a Starkweather — ” 

“What’s your idea? To have me be a jolly 
little martyr?” 

“There’s this much to say, Henry — at least 
I’d put John’s money to a nobler use than you 
ever would. ’ ’ 

Henry grimaced. “Your League?” 

“Yes, what else?” 

He was an impulsive young man, and some- 
times he made up his mind by contraries. “I 
wouldn’t count too much on it,” he said cheer- 
fully. ‘ 1 1 might astonish you. ’ ’ 

“You — Henry Devereux ! Am I going to see 


86 ROPE 

my own sister’s son in a polluted enterprise 
like — ” 

“You’re going to see your own grandfather’s 
great-grandson make P. T. Barnum look a Kick- 
apoo medicine man — if necessary,” said Henry. 
“Only don’t you worry about any pollution. 
That ’s where I draw the line. I ’m not going to 
stage one single pollute.” 

“You are going to operate that place?” 

“Why certainly,” said Henry. “And speak- 
ing of operations, I’ve got a hunch the patient’s 
going to recover. I’ve just been holding a 
clinic . . . Well — good-bye, Aunt Mirabelle.” 
He turned back to his wife and his friend 
Standish. “So that's settled,” said Henry, 
and grinned, a trifle apprehensively. “We’re 
off in a cloud of dust. . . . Waiter, where’s 
those two portions of crow I ordered four 
months ago 1 The service in this place is 
getting something rotten. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER VI 


M R. THEODORE MIX, sprawled in his 
desk chair, gazed with funereal gloom at 
the typewritten agreement which lay before 
him, unsigned. It was barely twenty minutes 
ago that Mr. Mix had risen to welcome the man 
who was to save his credit and his reputation; 
but during those twenty minutes Mr. Mix, who 
had felt that he was sitting on top of the world, 
had been unceremoniously shot off into space. 

His creditors surrounded him, (and because 
they were small creditors they were inclined to 
be nasty), he owed money to his New York 
correspondents, whose letters were becoming 
peremptory, and his brokerage business was 
pounding against the rocks. Quietly, over- 
night he had located a purchaser for the 
Orpheum, and as soon as Henryk name had 
been safe on the dotted line, Mr. Mix would 
have been financed for many months ahead. 
And then came Henry 1 — and Henry, who had 
87 


88 


EOPE 


been cast for the part of the lamb, had suddenly 
become as obstinate as a donkey. Mr. Mix, 
gazing at that agreement, was swept by im- 
potent rage at Henry, and he took the document 
and ripped it savagely across and across, and 
crumpled it in both his hands, and jammed it 
into his scrap-basket. 

For the moment, he subordinated his 
personal problems to his wrath at Henry. He 
charged Henry with full responsibility for this 
present crisis; for if Henry had simply scrib- 
bled his signature, Mr. Mix would have made a 
good deal of money. It never occurred to him 
that in the same transaction, Henry would have 
changed places with Mr. Mix. That was 
Henry’s look-out. And damn him, he had 
looked 1 

“I’m going to get him for that,” said Mr. 
Mix, half -aloud. “I’m going to get him, and 
get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket! 
Conceited young ass! And I’d have been 
square with the world, and paid off that in- 
fernal note, and had four . . . thouscmd . . . 
dollars left over.” His lips made a straight 
line. “And he’d have brought fifty thousand 


EOPE 


89 


dollars’ worth of business into this office — he’d 
have had to — he’d have had to hold up his 
friends — to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I’m go- 
ing to get him good.” 

Mr. Mix sat up, and emitted a short, mirth- 
less laugh. He frowned thoughtfully: and 
then, after a little search, he examined the 
pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and 
skimmed through the pages until he came to the 
paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of 
the Sunday ordinances . . . hm! . . . present 
ordinance seems to prohibit Sunday theatrical 
performances of all kinds, but city administra- 
tions have always been lax. Want the law on 
the books, don’t dare to repeal it, but don’t 
care to enforce it. 

Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew 
enough about the motion-picture business to 
realize that the Sunday performances made up 
the backbone of the week. He knew enough 
about the Orpheum to know that Henry’s quota, 
which under normal conditions would require 
only diligence, and initiative, and originality to 
reach, would be literally impossible if Sundays 
were taken from the schedule. The League’s 


90 


E 0 PE 


blue-law campaign, if it proved successful, 
would make Henry Devereux even bluer than 
Mr. Mix. ‘ ‘ Three rousing cheers for reform ! ’ ’ 
said Mr. Mix, and grinned at the pamphlet. 

Another brilliant thought infected him. He 
had long since passed the stage in which women 
were a mystery to him: he had long since 
realized that unless a man’s passions inter- 
vene, there is nothing more mysterious about 
women than about men. It was all humbug — 
all this mummery about intuitions and unerring 
perception and inscrutability. Women are all 
alike — all human — all susceptible to sheer, 
blatant flattery. The only difference in women 
is in the particular brand of flattery to which, 
as individuals, they react. 

Take Miss Starkweather : he had seen that if 
he fed her vanity unsparingly — not her physical 
vanity, but her pride in her own soul, and in her 
League presidency — she blazed up into a flame 
which consumed even her purpose in causing 
the interview. Once already, by no remarkable 
effort, he had been able to divert her attention ; 
and it was now imperative for him to keep it 
diverted until he had raised five thousand 


ROPE 


91 


dollars. And if she were so susceptible, why 
shouldn’t Mr. Mix venture a trifle further? He 
knew that she regarded him as an important 
man ; why shouldn ’t he let himself be won over, 
slowly and by her influence alone, to higher 
things? Stopping, of course, just short of ac- 
tually becoming a League partisan? Why 
shouldn’t he feed her fat with ethics and adula- 
tion, until she were more anxious for his co- 
operation than for his money? If he couldn’t 
play hide-and-seek for six months, — if he 
couldn’t turn her head so far that she couldn’t 
bear to press him for payment — he wasn’t the 
strategist he believed himself to be. But in 
the meantime, where was he to get the money to 
live on? Still, Mirabelle came first. 

On Sunday, he fortified himself from his mea- 
gre supply of contraband, ate two large cloves, 
and went formally to call on her. He remained 
an hour, and by exercise of the most finished 
diplomacy, he succeeded in building up the situ- 
ation exactly as he had planned it. The note 
hadn’t been mentioned; the League hadn’t been 
given a breathing-space; and Mirabelle was 
pleading with him to see the light, and join the 


92 


ROPE 


crusade. Finally, she leaned forward and put 
her hand on his arm. 

“Two weeks ago,” she said, “I told the 
League I was going to give it a real surprise 
this next Tuesday. What I meant was money. 
The money for that note. But I’d hate to have 
you sell any securities when they’re down so 
low. And besides, am/body can give money — 
just money. What we need most is men. Let 
me do something different. You’re one of the 
big men here. You count for a good deal. We 
want you. I said I’d give ’em a surprise — let 
me make the League a present of you” She 
bestowed upon him a smile which was a star- 
tling combination of sharpness and appeal. 
“I’m certainly going to keep my promise, Mr 
Mix. I’m going to give ’em one or the other 
— you or the five thousand. Only I tell you 
in all sincerity, I’d rather it would be you.” 

Mr. Mix sat up with a jerk. The climax had 
been reached six months too soon. “Dear 
lady — ” 

“You can’t refuse,” she went on with an em- 
phasis which sobered him. “We want you for 
an officer, and a director. I’ve taken it up with 


ROPE 


93 


the committee. And yon ccm’t refuse. You 
believe everything we believe. Mr. Mix, look 
me in the eye, and tell me — if you ’re true to 
yourself, how can you refuse ?” 

‘‘That isn’t it,” he said, truthfully enough. 
“I — I wouldn’t be as valuable to you as you 
think.” 

“We’ll judge of that.” 

He knew that he was in a corner, and he 
hunted desperately for an opening. “And; — in 
any event, I couldn’t become an officer, or even 
a director. I — •” 

“Why not, pray?” 

“I haven’t the time, for one thing, nor the 
experience in — ” 

She swept away his objections with a stiff 
gesture. “You’re modest, and it’s becoming. 
But either you’re with us or against us : there’s 
no half-way about morals. If you’re with us, 
you ought to show your colours. And if you 
are with us, you’ll lead us, because you’re a 
born leader. You inspire. You instill. And 
for the sake of the common welfare — ” She 
paused : he was staring at her as if hypnotized. 
“For the sake of the city and the state and the 


94 


ROPE 


nation — ” His eyes were wide, and filled with 
a light which deceived her. “For the sake of 
civic honour and decency and self-respect — ” 

Mr. Mix cleared his throat. “Yes, but — ” 

Again, she leaned out and touched his arm. 
“For my sake! ” 

Mr. Mix recoiled slightly. ‘ 1 For your sake ! ’ ’ 
he muttered. 

“Yes, for mine. The sister of your oldest 
friend.’ ’ 

He owed her five thousand dollars, and if she 
demanded payment, he was a bankrupt. “Why 
does it mean so much to you!” he asked, sparr- 
ing for time. 

“It would be an epoch in the history of the 
League, Mr. Mix.” 

“You spoke about leadership. No one can 
hope to replace yourself.” 

“Thank you — I know you mean it. But no 
woman can lead a campaign such as the one 
we’re just starting. It takes a strong, dominant 
man who knows politics. Of course, when we go 
after dancing and cards and dress-reform, I 
guess I can do all right, but in this campaign — ” 


ROPE 95 

“What campaign is this, Miss Stark- 
weather V 9 

i ‘ Sunday enforcement. ’ 9 
Mr. Mix pursed his lips. “ Really V 9 
She nodded. “Were going to concentrate on 
one thing at a time. That ’s first . 9 9 
“Close all the theatres and every thing V 9 
“Tight !” she said, and the word was like the 
lash of a whip. “Tight as a drum.” 

Mr. Mix controlled himself rigidly. “You’ll 
have to pardon my seeming indelicacy, but — 99 
He coughed behind his hand. “That might 
bring about a very unhappy relationship be- 
tween my family and yours. Had you thought 
of it?” 

“Henry? Humph! Yes. I’m sorry, but I 
don’t propose to let my family or anybody else’s 
stand in the way of my principles. Do you? 
No. If Henry stands in the way, he’s going to 
get run over. Mark my words. ’ ’ 

His expression was wooden, but it concealed a 
thought which had flashed up, spontaneously, to 
dazzle him. In spite of his age and experience, 
Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of 


96 


ROPE 


Henry meant the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. 
Mix himself could assist in swinging the bal- 
ance. And he couldn’t quite destroy a picture 
of Mirabelle, walking down the aisle out of step 
to the wedding march. Her arms were loaded 
with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a 
crisp yellow bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he 
wanted to snort in deprecation, and he did 
neither. He was too busy with the conscious- 
ness that at last he was in a position to capital- 
ize his information. He knew what nobody else 
did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle, 
Mr. Archer and probably Judge Barklay and if 
he flung himself into the League’s campaign, 
what might he now accomplish? 

He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed 
her admiration. Mr. Mix drew a very long 
breath, and in the space of ten seconds thought 
ahead for a year. The League was ridiculously 
radical, but if Mr. Mix were appointed to direct 
it, he was confident that he could keep Mira- 
belle contented, without making himself too 
much of a ludicrous figure. All it needed was 
tact, and foresight. “If I could only spare the 


ROPE 


97 


time to help you — but you see, this is my dull 
season — I have to work twice as hard as usual 
to make an honest dollar — ” 

‘ 1 W ould you accept an honorarium ? ’ ’ 

“Beg pardon ?” 

“If you took charge of the drive, would you 
accept a salary? And give us most of your 
time? Say, four days a week?” 

Once more, his thoughts raced through the 
year. “Now,” he said, presently, “you are 
making it hard for me to refuse.” 

‘ ‘ Only that ? Haven ’t I made it impossible ? ’ ’ 
To Mr. Mix, her tone was almost more of a 
challenge than an invitation. He looked at her 
again; and at last he nodded. “I think — you 
have. ’ ’ 

She held out her hand. “I’ve always re- 
spected you as a man. Now I greet you as a 
comrade. We’ll make this city a place where 
a pure-minded man or woman won’t be ashamed 
to live. I tell you, I won’t be satisfied until 
we reach the ideal ! And prohibition was only 
one tiny move in advance, and we’ve miles to 
go. I’m glad we’re going the rest of the way 


98 


POPE 


together. And it wouldn’t surprise me in the 
least if you came out of it Mayor. That’s my 
idea.” 

Mr. Mix, with the faint aroma of cloves in 
his nostrils, backed away. 

“Oh, no, I don’t dream of that . . .’’he said. 
“But I feel as if I’d taken one of the most sig- 
nificant steps of my whole life. I — I think I’d 
better say good afternoon, Miss Starkweather. 
I want to be alone — and meditate. You under- 
stand?” 

“Like Galahad,” she murmured. 

Mr. Mix looked puzzled ; he thought she had a 
cold. But he said no more ; he went home to his 
bachelor apartment, and after he had helped 
himself to three full fingers of meditation, to- 
gether with a little seltzer, he smiled faintly, 
and told himself that there was no use in de- 
bating the point — a man with brains is predes- 
tined to make progress. But he couldn’t help 
reflecting that now, more than ever, if any echo 
of his New York escapades, or any rumour of 
his guarded habits got to Mirabelle’s ears — or, 
for that matter, to anybody’s ears at all — his 
dreams would float away in vapour. Perhaps it 


ROPE 


99 


would be wise to explain to Mirabelle that he 
had once been a sinner. She would probably 
forgive him, and appreciate him all the more. 
Women do. ... It was curious that she had 
mentioned him as a possible Mayor. It had 
been his dearest ambition. He wondered if, 
with his present reputation, and then with the 
League behind him, there were a ghost of a 
chance. . . . 


CHAPTER VII 


T HERE was probably no power on the face 
of the earth which could have driven 
Henry Devereux to the operation of a picture 
theatre, strictly as a business venture ; but when 
he once got it into his head that the Orpheum 
wasn’t so much a business as a sporting propo- 
sition, he couldn’t have been stopped by any- 
thing short of an injunction. Immediately, his 
attitude was normal, and from the moment that 
he resolved to take possession of his property, 
and operate it, he was indifferent to the public 
estimate of him. The thing was a game, a game 
with a great stake, and set rules, and Henry took 
it as he once had taken his golf and his billiards 
and his polo — joyously, resiliently, deter- 
minedly, and without the slightest self-con- 
sciousness, and with never an eye for the gal- 
lery. 

He was inspirited, moreover, by the attitude 
of his friends. To be sure, they laughed, but in 
100 


ROPE 


101 


their laughter there was no trace of the ridicule 
he had feared. They took the situation as a 
very good joke on Henry, but at the same time, 
because gossip had already begun to build up a 
theory to explain that situation, there were sev- 
eral of them who wished that a similar joke, 
with a similar nubbin, might be played on 
themselves. They told this to Henry, they 
urged him to go ahead and become a strictly 
moral Wallingford, they slapped him on the 
back and assured him that if there was jus- 
tice in the Sunday-school books, he was certain 
to finish in the money; and Henry, who had 
provided himself with several air-tight alibis, 
found them dead .stock on his hands. He had 
known, of course, that he could count on Bob 
Standish, and a few of his other intimates, but 
the hearty fellowship of the whole circle over- 
whelmed him. He knew that even when they 
waxed facetious, they were rooting for him; 
and this knowledge multiplied his confidence, 
and gave him fresh courage. 

And yet, with all the consciousness of his 
loyal backing, he was considerably upset to 
read in the Herald, on the very morning that 


102 


ROPE 


he took control of his property, a seven column 
streamer headline which leaped out to threaten 
him. 

“•SUNDAY THEATRES AND AMUSEMENTS 
MUST GO!”— MIX 

Prominent Business Man Turns Reformer 

THEODORE MIX CHOSEN TO MANAGE 
CAMPAIGN OF LEAGUE 

Pledges Enforcement of City Ordinances to the Letter 

His first reaction was one of bewilderment, 
and after that, one of consternation. His 
friend Bob Standish tried to laugh it off for 
him, but Henry hadn’t a smile in his system. 

“All right, then,” said Bob Standish. “Go 
see the judge. He’ll tell you the same thing. 
Mix ’s nothing but a bag of wind. He ’s an old 
blowhard.” 

“Maybe he is,” conceded Henry, soberly. 
“But Pd be just as satisfied about it if he blew 
in some other direction.” 

Henry took the paper to Judge Barklay, 
who had already seen it, and made his own de- 
ductions. “Oh, no,” he said, “Pm not aston- 


EOPE 


103 


ished. When a man’s in hot enough water, 
he’ll cut up almost any kind of caper to get 
out. There’s only two kinds of people who 
ever go into these radical movements — great 
successes and great failures. Never any aver- 
age folks. I’d say it’s a pretty good refuge 
for him, and you drove him to it.” 

“Well — does he mean what he says there?” 

“Not too much of it. How could he! If he 
does half he says he will, he’ll lose his job. 
The town would be as pure as Utopia, and 
there wouldn’t be any League.” 

“How about the ordinance he quotes, 
though?” 

“Oh, that ... it’s Ordinance 147. It’s so 
old it’s toothless. The City Council doesn’t 
quite dare to repeal it — nobody’s sure enough, 
these days, to get up and take a chance — but 
they don’t want it enforced, and they haven’t 
for ages.” 

Henry frowned. “That’s all right. But 
suppose they did arrest somebody under that 
Ordinance? What would you do?” 

“Fine ’em, of course. I’d have to. But 
I’ve never had such a case that I can remem- 


104 


ROPE 


ber. There haven ’t been any arrests. It’s an 
understood thing.’ ’ 

“Yes, that’s fine — as long as everybody un- 
derstands it the same way. But maybe Mix 
doesn’t— or Aunt Mirabelle either.” 

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry much.” 

Henry continued serious. “Oh, I guess I 
can sleep nights all right without any pare- 
goric, but what right have they got to butt into 
the only day of recreation the working people 
have? If their immortal souls hurt ’em as 
much as all that, why don’t they go oft and 
suffer where they can do it in peace and not 
bother us?” 

The Judge laughed quietly. “Whence all this 
sudden affection for the working man, Henry?” 

Henry reddened. “Strictly between the two 
of us, I don’t like the idea of Sunday business, 
anyway. But unfortunately, that’s the big 
day. . . . But, if you had to work indoors, 
eight hours a day, six days a week, maybe you ’d 
be satisfied to spend Sundays picking sweet 
violets out by the barge canal, but what would 
you do when it rained?” 

“Of course,” admitted the Judge, “it’s a 


ROPE 


105 


poor policy to have a law on the books, and ig- 
nore it. Both of ns must admit that. A good 
law ought to be kept ; a bad one ought to be re- 
pealed; but any law that is valid oughtn’t to 
be winked at. And if pressure should be 
brought on the Mayor to enforce that ordi- 
nance, and any arrests are made, why I’ll have 
to do my duty.” 

“Yes — and here I’m raising a mortgage and 
spending the money on improvements that’ll 
hold us up for more than two weeks — and here 
Anna and I are going to live in a couple of 
box-stalls (every time you take a long breath 
in that flat you create a vacuum!)' — and here 
I’ve been going to the City Commercial School 
every afternoon for two solid hours, and study- 
ing like a dog every night — and here I’ve re- 
signed from the Golf Club, and everything 
else but the Citizens — and if they do put the 
kibosh on Sunday shows, why I’ll be elected 
to the Hohenzollern Club. And the cream of 
that joke is that Aunt Mirabelle’s outfit ’d get 
itself endowed for putting me out of commis- 
sion!” 

“They won’t do it, Henry. These organiza- 


106 


ROPE 


tions always make the same mistake. They go 
too far. They aren’t talking reform; they’re 
talking revolution, and people won’t stand for 
it. These reform crowds always start out 
to be a band-wagon, and if they kept their 
senses, they could do some real good — and then 
they march so fast that pretty soon they find 
they’ve winded everybody else, and there isn’t 
any parade. All they need is rope. Give ’em 
enough of it, and they always hang themselves. 
That speech of Mix’s has done more harm to 
the League than it has good. You go right 
ahead with your improvements.” 

In view of the Judge’s official position, this 
was in the nature of an opinion from head- 
quarters; and yet Henry delayed for a day 
or two before he signed his contract for the 
alterations. In the meantime, he saw Mr. 
Archer and got an interpretation of the will; 
Mr. Archer was sorry, but if Sundays were 
ruled out, there was no provision for reducing 
the quota, and Henry would have to stand or 
fall on the exact phraseology. He had another 
session with the Judge, and three a day with 
Anna, and one with the largest exhibitor in 


ROPE 


107 


town (who pooh-poohed the League, and of- 
fered to back up his pooh-poohs with a cash 
bet that nothing would ever come of it) and 
eventually he was persuaded to execute the 
contract. 

Through Rob Standish, he negotiated a 
mortgage which would cover the cost of the 
work, and leave a comfortable balance. 
“We’re not going to be as poor as I thought 
we were,” he said cheerfully to Anna who had 
put in two hectic weeks on the apartment she 
had chosen because it was the cheapest in the 
market. “We’ve got something in the bank 
for emergencies, and ten thousand a year is 
two hundred a week besides.” 

Anna was horrified. “You didn’t think we’d 
spend what we make, did you?” 

“Why not? Uncle John didn’t say we had 
to show them ten thousand in coin at the end 
of the year; he said I had to make it — on the 
books. We can spend every kopeck of it, if we 
want to. And I was about to say that with 
six thousand dollars left over from the mort- 
gage money, we’ll have a maid after all. Yea, 
verily, even a cook. ’ ’ 


108 


ROPE 


Anna glanced at her hands — slim, beautiful 
hands they were — and shook her head obsti- 
nately. 4 ‘No, dear. Because what we save 
now might be our only capital later/ ’ 

“But we’re going to win . We’re going to 
exert our resistless wills to the utmost. What’s 
the use of being tightwads!” 

“But if we shouldn't win, look where we’d 
be ! No, dear, we’re going to save our pennies. 
That ’s why I picked out this apartment ; that ’s 
why I’m doing as much as I can with it my- 
self. It’s the only safe way. And just look 
around — haven’t I done wonders with almost 
nothing at all!” 

Henry looked around, not that his memory 
was at fault, but because he was perpetually 
dumbfounded by her genius. Originally, this 
living-room had been a dolorous cave with var- 
nished yellow-pine woodwork, gas-logs, yellow 
wall-paper to induce toothache, and a stark 
chandelier with two anemic legs kicking out at 
vacancy. She had caused the Orpheum electri- 
cian to remove the chandelier; with her own 
hands, she had painted the wood-work a deep, 


EOPE 


109 


rich cream-colour; she had ripped out the gas- 
logs and found what no one had ever suspected 
— a practicable flue ; and she had put in a bas- 
ket grate which in the later season would glow 
with cheerful coals. Over the wall-paper she 
had laid a tint which was a somewhat deeper 
cream than the woodwork. .She had made that 
cave attractive with a soft, dull-blue rug, and 
wicker furniture, with hangings of cretonne in 
sunny gold and an echo of the blue rug, with 
brass bowls which held the bulbs she had tended 
on the kitchen window-sill, with bookshelves, 
and pictures from her own home. Especially 
by candle-light, it was charming ; and her great- 
est joy, and Henry’s unending marvel, was that 
it had cost so little, and that so much of it was 
her own handiwork. 

“Yes, but pause and reflect a minute,” said 
Henry. “I’ve sold the big car and bought a 
tin-plated runabout. I’ve sold my horse. I’ve 
sold ten tons of old clothes and priceless jewels. 
Financially speaking, I’m as liquid as a pel- 
lucid pool in a primeval forest. And there’s 
another grand thing to consider; I’m keeping 


110 


ROPE 


my own books, so nobody’s going to crack 
the till, the way they did with grandfather. 
Can’t we even have a cook?” 

“No, dear. Nobody bnt me. We’Ve got to 
play safe. It’s all part of the game. Don’t 
yon see it is?” 

Eventually, he agreed with her, and went 
back to the Orphenm, where a score of work- 
men were busy remodelling the interior, and 
patching up the fagade. He stood for a mo- 
ment to watch the loading of a truck with 
broken-seats, jig-saw decorations, and the re- 
mains of a battered old projector; he looked 
up, presently to the huge sign over the entrance : 
“Closed During Alterations, Grand Opening 
Sunday Afternoon, August 20th. Souvenirs.” 
There was no disputing the fact that all his 
eggs were in one basket, and that if the Re- 
form League started to throw stones at it, they 
would find it a broad mark. But Henry had 
plenty of assurances that he didn’t need to 
worry, and so he sponged away the last of his 
doubts, and set to work to learn his business 
with all possible speed. 

It was his first experience with the building 


ROPE 


111 


trades, and he was innocent enough to believe 
in schedules and estimates. In less than a fort- 
night, however, he came home to his wife in 
a mood which she was quick to detect, no mat- 
ter how carefully he disguised it. 

“Oh, Pm just peevish,’ ’ said Henry. “The 
contractor says it’ll take four weeks instead 
of three, and cost six thousand instead of forty- 
five hundred. But there’s no use wearing a 
long face about it. If I did, I didn’t mean to.” 

Anna slipped out of her big apron, and re- 
arranged her hair. “Of course you didn’t. I 
just knew.” 

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “my face 
feels long enough to fit in a churn. Only I 
was under the impression that I’d put on a 
mask of gaiety that was absolutely impene- 
trable. . . . Well, what’s happened in the an- 
cestral home today?” 

She had burned a steak and both thumbs; 
there was a leak in the plumbing, and the 
family overhead had four children and a phono- 
graph. Henry kissed the thumbs, cursed the 
kitchen range, and forgot his troubles. 

“You’re going to ruin your hands,” he said, 


112 


ROPE 


sympathetically. “Darn it, we can afford a 
cook, Anna. Come on; be reasonable. ” 

She shook her head. ‘ ‘ Oh ! And I meant to 
tell you the wall-paper’s peeling off in the din- 
ing room, and the most awful smell of fried 
onions keeps coming up the dumb-waiter 
shaft.” 

Henry gathered her into his arms. “Dear- 
est, in a year you can have a dipperful of 
attar of roses for every fried onion. And 
we’ll be so rich you can mingle practically on 
equal terms with the plumber’s wife. . . . Now 
let’s go put on the feed-bag. And by the way, 
I prefer my steak slightly burned — it’s more 
antiseptic.” 

He never suspected that ninety-nine percent 
of her difficulties were imaginary, and that she 
had invented them as soon as 1 she saw his 
face. 

A week later, the contractor brought in still 
another schedule, and another estimate ; Henry 
became Chesterfieldian in his politeness, and 
wanted to know if a contract were a contract, 
or merely a piece of light literature. The con- 
tractor was apologetic, but wages were going 


EOPE 


113 


up — materials were high — labour was scarce — 
transportation was uncertain — shipments were 
slow — 

Henry was angry and disillusioned, but he 
knew that belligerence would gain him nothing. 
“In other words,’ ’ he said, genially, “there’s 
something the matter with everything but the 
Orpheum, and everybody but me. I congratu- 
late myself. Well, when I do get the job fin- 
ished, and what does it cost — not to a minute 
and a fraction of a cent, of course, but a gen- 
eral idea — what year, and — •” 

“Mr. Devereux!” 

“And a guess that’s within say, a couple of 
thousand dollars of the real price.” 

“I hope you don’t think 7’m making any 
big profit out of this. To tell the truth — ” 

“Oh, I know,” said Henry. “You’re losing 
money. Don’t deny it, you eleemosynary ras- 
cal, don’t deny it.” 

The man felt himself insulted, but Henry 
was smiling, and of course that strange word 
might be something technical. “Well, to tell 
the truth, we — ” 

“Come on, now. I know you’re an altruist, 


114 


EOPE 


but be a sport. You’re losing money, and the 
children are moaning with hunger in their little 
trundle-beds, but when do I get the job done?” 

‘ 1 The second week in September. ’ ’ 

“This September? And the bill?” 

“ Shaved down so close there’s hardly 
any — ” 

‘ ‘ Shave it every morning; it’s being done. 
But what’s your figure?” 

“Seventy-six fifty.” 

There was nothing for Henry to do but to 
have a new date painted on the sign, and to 
draw on his reserve fund, but at bottom he 
was vastly perturbed. He had counted on a 
running start, and every week of delay was 
a vicious handicap. If he had remotely imag- 
ined how elastic a contractor’s agreement could 
be, he would certainly have thought twice 
about ordering so many changes! — he would 
have steered a middle course, and been satis- 
fied with half the improvement — but as it was, 
he had put himself in a trap. Now that the 
work was partly done, it would have to be com- 
pleted. There was no way out of it. And from 
day to day, as the arrears of labour heaped up, 


KOPE 


115 


and cost was piled on cost, Henry began to 
lose a trifle of his fine buoyancy and optimism. 

Also, it was amazing to discover that Anna 
was much less self-reliant than he had thought 
her. Almost every night she displayed some 
unsuspected trait of helplessness, so that he 
simply had to shelve his worries, and baby her 
out of her own. He adored her, and there- 
fore he never questioned her ingenuousness ; he 
didn’t see that by monopolizing his thoughts, 
and turning them entirely upon herself, she pre- 
vented him from wasting his energy in futile 
brooding, even if he had inclined to it. 

He planned to open in mid-September, but a 
strike among the carpenters added a few days 
to the time, and, by virtue of a compromise, 
a few dollars to the account. The building in- 
spector wouldn’t pass the wiring, and the elec- 
tricians took a holiday before they conde- 
scended to return. When the last nail was 
driven, the last brushful of paint applied, the 
final item added to the long statement, the day 
was the last Friday in the month, and the total 
bill amounted to more than nine thousand dol- 
lars. 


116 


ROPE 


“Anna,” said Henry, reflectively, “it's a 
lucky thing for us this world was all built be- 
fore we were born. Know that? Because if 
they’d ever started it under modern conditions, 
there wouldn’t be anything to it yet but the 
Garden of Eden and Atlantic City and maybe 
Gopher Prairie. . . . Well,, I bonder Iwhat’s 
next?” 

“There won’t be any next, dear. Nothing 
can happen now. And aren’t you glad I’ve 
made us economize? Aren’t you? Say your 
prayers! Say — ‘ bless Anna’!” 

“Not Anna — Polly anna. Glad we econo- 
mized ! Why don ’t you say you ’re glad it took 
two months to do two weeks ’ work because that 
gave me so much more time to study the game, 
and find out how to run the theatre? No, it 
goes back farther than that. I’m glad you 
caught me while I was so young.” 

“Henry!” 

“What? Don’t you remember how you pur- 
sued me, and vamped me, and took away my 
volition, so I was helpless as a babe — ” 

“Oh, Henry!” 

“Sure you did. Funny you don’t remember 


ROPE 117 

that. Or else — was it the other way around ?” 

“Well — 99 

“Well, anyhow,’ ’ he said, in a slightly lower 
key. “I’m glad it happened. . . . And you 
stick to me, and you’ll wear diamonds yet. 
Great hunks of grit, strung all over you. I’ll 
make you look as vulgar as a real society 
woman. That ’s the kind of man I am. A good 
provider — that is, of course, providing 

And on Saturday morning, the Herald told 
them that a committee from the Reform League 
had waited on the Mayor for the third time, 
and delivered an ultimatum. 

“Oh, bother!” said Anna. “There’s been 
something in the paper every two or three 
days. It doesn’t amount to a row of pins. Dad 
says so.” 

Henry inhaled deeply. “Did you see who’s 
on that committee? Mix and Aunt Mirabelle, 
of course, and if they’ve got it in for anybody 
special, I’m it. Bob says Mix is a grand little 
hater; he’s seen him in action, and he says to 
keep an eye on him: says Mix had lined up a 
buyer for the Orpheum, so naturally he’s sore 
at me. . . . And then a flock of old men just 


118 


ROPE 


under par — I’d say they average about ninety- 
seven and a half — but they’re a pretty solid 
lot; too solid to be booted out of any Mayor’s 
office. And if they should get the Mayor 
stirred up, why, we wouldn’t have the chance 
of a celluloid rat in a furnace. ... I wish the 
Judge were where I could get at him. He’d 
know what’s going on.” 

“ Couldn’t you ask the Exhibitors Associa- 
tion?” 

“They don’t know. The Judge is on the in- 
side. Do you know when he’s coming back 
from his vacation?” 

“Not for two or three weeks yet. But I’Ve 
an intuition, dear — ” 

“Sure. So have I. A year from now we’ll 
be eating our golden pheasants off our golden 
plates with our gold teeth. But in the mean- 
time, you better keep your eye on the butcher’s 
bill. . . . They tell me hash is a great nerve- 
food.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


I N years the Mayor was no chicken, but in 
politics he had hardly chipped his shell, 
so that he was still susceptible to delegations, 
and sets of resolutions, and references to his 
solemn oath of office. Furthermore, he had 
been secretly awed by Mr. Mix’s eloquence; 
for Mr. Mix, as spokesman of the committee, 
had delivered a speech which was a brief his- 
tory of both common and statutory law from 
the time of Solon and Draco up to the most re- 
cent meeting of the City Council. Then, in 
addition, the Mayor had been mightily im- 
pressed by the personnel of that committee — 
chiefly old men, to be sure, but men of immense 
dignity and considerable weight in local fi- 
nance; and also, for a counterpoise, there was 
Miss Starkweather. He hadn’t liked the way 
Miss Starkweather looked at him. She had 
looked at him with the same rigid intensity 

119 


120 ROPE 

with which his wife looked at a fly in the din- 
ing-room. 

As the door closed behind the last of the com- 
mittee, the Mayor drew a prodigious breath, 
and walked over to the window, where for sev- 
eral minutes he remained in deep thought. He 
tried to remember Mr. Mix’s peroration: 

“ Thousands of years ago, Mr. Mayor, when 
the race of man was still dressed in skins, and 
domiciled in caves, and settling its differences 
with clubs and brickbats, there was no insti- 
tution of law, — there was no written language. 
But as civilization advanced, men found the 
necessity of communicating their ideas ; so that 
they devised a form of speech which would 
enable them to exchange these ideas — such as 
they were — about life, and law. And later on, 
it was plain that in order to perpetuate these 
ideas and pass them to posterity, it was neces- 
sary to write them down ; and so there was de- 
veloped a written language, and by this method 
civilized men through all the ages have written 
down the laws under which they are willing to 
live. It would be impractical for all of us to 
meet together to pass our laws, and therefore 


EOPE 


121 


we elect representatives who make our laws 
for us. These laws are binding upon all of 
us until they are set aside by still other legisla- 
tors, still acting for the whole people, who 
have chosen them as their legislative repre- 
sentatives. The duty of the executive branch 
of our government is to enforce those laws, 
whether made yesterday, or made fifty years 
ago, or five hundred years ago, and written 
down in our law-books. . . . This is our third 
conference with you, Mr. Mayor, in regard to 
one of those laws. I therefore have to inform 
you, in behalf of our committee and our League, 
and our whole city (whose representatives in 
City Council passed that law for our common 
good) that you stand today at the parting of 
the ways. You must choose whether to up- 
hold your sacred oath of office, or to disre- 
gard it. And (within forty-eight hours you 
will have made that choice, and we shall know 
where our duty lies. ... I thank you for your 
patience. ’ ’ 

The Mayor was one of those who, without 
the first atom of sustaining evidence, had long 
been vaguely suspicious that Mr. Mix wasn’t 


122 


ROPE 


always as pious as he appeared in church. He 
had noted, too, that although Mr. Mix’s name 
was frequently listed on committees, yet it 
never bobbed up in connection with an ob- 
scure cause, however worthy, or among the 
names of unimportant citizens. He was con- 
vinced that Mr. Mix had an ulterior motive — 
political, social, financial — hut the worst of it 
was that Mr. Mix had come with support which 
couldn’t be sidetracked. 

The Mayor shook himself, and went over to 
his telephone ; a few minutes later the Chief of 
Police strolled in, and grinned at the disordered 
semi-circle of chairs. “Been holdin’ a prayer- 
meetin’, Mr. Rowland?” 

The Mayor was biting his moustache. “Sit 
down, Chief. I want some advice. . . . Lord, 
I wish Barklay wasn’t off on his vacation. . . . 
Why, I’ve just had a threat from this Reform 
League.” 

“Threat? What kind of a threat?” 

The Mayor didn’t reply immediately; he con- 
tinued to chew his moustache. “You know that 
fool Sunday law — was passed ’way back in the 
year One?” 


123 


ROPE 

‘ ‘ Sure. 147. Dead letter. ’ ’ 

6 ‘ They say it’s got to be enforced.’ ’ 

The Chief laughed boisterously. “That’s a 
big order.” 

“I know it is. The mass of the people don’t 
want it — never did. But in these days there 
isn’t a Councillor 1 know’d put a motion to re- 
peal it, or amend it. Probition’s scared ’em. 
They don’t know what the people want, so 
they’re laying mighty low. . . . Same time, this 
League’s getting pretty strong. Mix, and John 
Starkweather’s sister, and ex-Senator Kaplan, 
Richards of the First National, Dr. Smillie of 
the Church crowd, old man Fredericks of Na- 
tional Metal — know what they handed me to- 
day?” 

“Let her come.” 

The Mayor snorted with disgust. “Hinted 
if I didn’t begin enforcement day after tomor- 
row they’d appeal to the Governor. . . . Lord, 
I wish Barklay was here.” 

The Chief grinned again. “I know what 
Barklay ’d say.” 

“What?” 

“Give ’em rope.” 


124 


ROPE 


“We-11 . . . that’s easy enough to say.” 

“Easy to do, too.’* 

“I can’t see it. But if they go up to the 
Governor, with a petition to investigate — and 
the state law’s pretty rough — and start im- 
peachment proceedings — 

The Chief spat contemptuously. “Shucks, 
give ’em rope.” 

“Well — how?” 

“Why, enforce the damn’ law — just once. 
Spike Mix’s guns — he’s only doin’ this on a 
bluff. Guess he wants the reform vote for 
Council, or somethin’. Keep it under our bon- 
nets, and send out a squad of patrolman Sun- 
day afternoon to raid every theatre in town. 
Bat ’em over the head before they know it. I 
wouldn’t even tell my own men ’till I lined 
’em up and give ’em their orders. Then listen 
for the public to holler.” 

The Mayor had broken into a high-pitched 
laugh; he stopped abruptly. “How many 
people ’d there be in all the houses put to- 
gether?” 

4 ‘ Six thousand. Five of ’em at the movies. ’ ’ 

“They’d start a riot!” 


ROPE 


125 


“Oh, I wouldn’t pinch the audiences; just 
the managers, and bust up the shows. Then 
you’d find out if the people want that law or 
not. We say they don’t, but how do we know? 
Let’s find out.” 

The Mayor sat down at his desk, and began 
to chuckle. “Chief, that’s a bully idea — but 
what’d happen on Monday?” 

“Happen? When, five, six thousand voters 
got put out in the street and their Sunday after- 
noon spoiled? Fellows with girls — Pa takin’ 
the family out for a treat — factory hands? 
They ’d be a howlin ’ mob in the Council chamber 
on Monday mornin’; that’s what’d happen. 
And one damn fool law’d be fixed so’s the Po- 
lice Department ’d know how to handle it.” 

“It’s passing the buck!” murmured the 
Mayor, ecstatically. “It’s passing the buck 
right to the people, by George!” 

“Sure. Do we go ahead with it? Want 
anybody tipped off?” 

The Mayor was hugging his knees ecstati- 
cally. “No, we’ll make a clean sweep. No 
favourites. The bigger haul the better. All the 
boys’ll understand. Keep it dead under your 


126 ROPE 

liat. We’ll talk over the details tomorrow.” 
Chuckling, he leaned back and opened his arms 
wide, his fists closed. “Rope!” he said. 
“Rope! Chief, we’ll give ’em a hawser!” 


On Saturday evening, Henry gave a special 
invitation performance, to which only his per- 
sonal friends and Anna’s were bidden, and if 
he had cherished any lingering doubt of his 
place in society, it must have been removed that 
night. His friends didn’t know the details of 
the Starkweather trust fund, but they knew that 
Henry’s future was lashed to his success with 
the Orpheum, and they came to help tie the 
knot. Naturally, since the auditorium was 
filled with young people who had grown up to- 
gether, and with a few older people who had 
helped to bring them up, there was plenty of 
informality — indeed, a large part of it had been 
scheduled and rehearsed in advance. Henry 
didn’t have to ask any questions; he knew that 
Bob Standish was responsible. 

With Anna beside him, he had stood for 


ROPE 


127 


thirty minutes in the foyer, to receive his 
guests, and as smile after smile encouraged him, 
and he heard the steady stream of sincere 
good-wishes, Henry began to grow curiously 
warm in the region of his heart, and curiously 
weak in the knees. Anna moved closer to him. 

“I told you so,” she whispered. “I told you 
so. Everybody loves you.” 

“It isn’t me,” he whispered back, with un- 
grammatical fervour. “It’s you.” 

They stood together, then, at the rear of the 
house, to watch the high-jinks going on in front. 
Standish had ousted the three-piece orchestra, 
and taken over the piano; two other volun- 
teers had flanked him, and the revelry began 
with a favourite ditty to proclaim that all re- 
ports to the contrary notwithstanding, Henry 
was style all the while, all the while. 

Then, suddenly, there were loud shouts for 
Henry and Anna, and they were seized and 
dragged to the top of the centre aisle. Stand- 
ish swung into the Mendelssohn Wedding 
March, and through a haze of rose-leaf confetti 
and paper streamers, the two Devereuxs were 
forced down to the orchestra-pit. The house 


128 


ROPE 


was on its feet to them, and Anna, half -laugh- 
ing, half-crying with happiness, was sorting 
confetti out of her hair when Standish clam- 
bered np on the stage, and waved for silence. 

“ Listen, everybody. . . . Old Hank Dever- 
enx and wife tried to save the price of a ca- 
terer, last spring, and they got away with it. 
Alas, Hank’s a jealous bird, and he was afraid 
somebody ’d kiss the bride. Furthermore, Anna 
didn’t want to get any wedding presents, be- 
cause they clutter up the house so. And when 
most of your friends live in the same town, 
it’s hard to get rid of the stuff you don’t want. 
So they buncoed us out of a party. Well, so 
far we’ve given ’em Mendelssohn and confetti. 
Any lady or gent who now desires to kiss the 
bride, please rise and come forward. . . . 
Hey, there ! This isn’t any Sinn Fein sociable ! 
Ceremony’s postponed! . . . And finally, 
dearly beloved brethren and sistren, we 
come to the subject of wedding gifts. ,, He 
turned to look down at the Devereuxs, and 
some of the levity went out of his voice. “We 
thought we’d bring you a little something for 
good-luck, old man. It’s from all of us. Hope 


ROPE 


129 


you like it. If you don’t, you can swap it for 
a few tons of coal. . . . There she comes!” 

It was a magnificent silver tea-service, 
borne down the aisle by the two men who, 
next to Standish, were Henry’s best friends. 

Anna was utterly speechless, and Henry was 
coughing diligently. The service was placed 
on the piano ; Henry touched the cool smooth- 
ness of a cream-jug, and tried to crystallize his 
thought into coherence. 

The applause had died away ; the house was 
quiet, expectant. From the rear, a man’s 
voice said: 6 6 It isn’t like a golf champion- 
ship trophy, old man — you don’t have to win 
it three times — it’s all yours.” 

In the shriek of laughter which followed, 
Henry, with Anna in tow, fled to shelter. 
“Lights!” said Henry. Abruptly, the audi- 
torium was dim. And with Anna holding tight 
to his fingers, he sat down in the furthest cor- 
ner, and trembled. 

For the next two hours, Standish, who was 
on one of his periodical fits of comedy, stuck 
to his piano, and dominated the evening. He 
played grotesquely inappropriate melodies, he 


130 


POPE 


commanded singing, once he stopped the show 
and with the assistance of a dozen recruits put 
on the burlesque of an amateur night at a 
music-hall. He made the occasion a historical 
event, and when at last it was over, and the 
guests were filing out to the lobby, he came 
to Henry and held out his hand. 

‘ ‘ Big-time, Henry, big-time, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ See ? 
They’re all with you . 99 

Henry cleared his throat. “ You ’re a peach, 
Bob. You got it up.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t anything.” Standish’s cloak 
of comedy had fallen away; he looked as lazy, 
and as innocent and childlike as ever. “Be- 
fore I go — I had a letter today from one of the 
big movie circuit crowd. They’ll pay you 
thirty-seven thousand five hundred cash for the 
Orpheum. I ’ve got a certified check for a thou- 
sand to bind the bargain. Want it?” 

Henry didn’t even glance at it. “Put it 
back in your pocket, Bob. I wouldn’t sell it 
for ten times that — not after tonight.” 

His friend smiled very faintly. “It’s a good 
price, if you care to get out from under. Be- 


ROPE 131 

tween you and me, I think it’s more than the 
Orpheum’s worth/ ’ 

“Don’t want it,” said Henry gruffly. 
Standish gazed with vast innocence at Anna. 
“Third and last chance, Henry. Otherwise, 
I’ll mail it back tonight. Just a few hours 
from now this place, right where we’re stand- 
ing, ’ll look like a sardine-can come to life, 
and you’ll be taking in money hand over fist, 
and you’ll be branded forever as — ” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Henry, affectionately. 


Through the jostling, good-natured crowd 
which blocked the sidewalk in front of the Or- 
pheum Theatre, that Sunday at two o’clock, 
a policeman in uniform pushed his way to the 
ticket-booth. ‘ 1 Where ’s the manager ? ’ ’ 

The ticket-seller bobbed her head backwards. 
“First door on the left.” 

The policeman stalked through the lobby, 
and found the door; knocked belligerently, and 
stepped inside. “You the manager? Well, 


132 


EOPE 


there ain’t goin’ to be no show today, see!” 

Henry jumped to his feet. “ What’s that!” 

“You heard what I said. No show. Close 
up your theatre and call it a day. ’ r 

Henry turned, for moral support, to his wife : 
she had already hurried to his side. “What’s 
all this, Mr. Officer!” she asked, unsteadily. 

“It’s police orders; that’s what it is, young 
lady.” 

She seized Henry’s hand. “But — but when 
we’ve — why, you don’t really mean it, do you!” 

He dug into his pocket, and produced a tat- 
tered, dog-eared pamphlet, folded open at one 
of the early pages. He read aloud, slowly: 
“ ‘ Whosoever shall fail in the strict observance 
o’ the Lord’s Day by any unseemly act, speech, 
or carriage, or whosoever shall engage in any 
manner o’ diversion or profane occupation for 
profit — ’ ” 

Anna, holding tight to Henry’s hand, knew 
that argument was futile, but she was a woman, 
and she had a husband to defend. Her heart 
was leaden, but her voice was stout with indig- 
nation. 

“But Mr. Policeman! Do you know who I 


ROPE 


133 


am? Pm Judge Barklay’s daughter. I know 
all about that ordinance. Nobody’s ever — ” 

He held up his hand in warning. ‘ 1 That’s 
all right, young lady. If you’re his daughter, 
you oughter keep on the right side o’ the law. 
It won’t do you no good to bicker about it nei- 
ther — you go in there an’ tell your audience to 
get their money back, an’ go on home.” 

Henry picked up his cigarette. He had no 
craving to smoke, but he didn’t want Anna to 
see that his lips were trembling. ‘ 4 Well,” he 
said, “there goes the old ball-game. And we’ve 
sold every seat in the house, and thrown away 
three hundred dollar’s worth of souvenirs, and 
the sidewalk’s full of people waiting for the 
second show. . . . Knockout Mix beats Battling 
Devereux in the first round.” He did his best 
to smile, but the results were poor. “And 
when we held off three days just so we could 
start on Sunday with a grand smash!” 

“Get a move on, young feller. If the show 
begins, you’re pinched, see? You go in there 
and do what I told you.” 

From within there was a sudden rattle of 
applause. Anna gripped her husband’s arm. 


134 ROPE 

It’s . . . it’s begun already / 9 she said, breath- 
lessly. 

The policeman stepped forward. “You 
heard me tell you to stop it, didn ’t you ? What 
are you tryin’ to do — play horse with me f Now 
you go in there an’ stop it, and then you come 
along with me an ’ explain it to the Judge. See ? 
Now, get a wiggle on.” 


CHAPTER IX 


F ROM the moment that he went out upon the 
little stage of his theatre until he came 
wearily into his own apartment at five o’clock, 
Henry lived upon a mental plane so far re- 
moved from his usual existence that he was 
hardly aware of any bodily sensations at all. 
A brand-new group of emotions had picked him 
out for their play-ground, and Henry had no 
time to be self-conscious. 

In the first place, he was too stunned to re- 
member that he hated to be conspicuous, and 
that he had never made a public speech in all 
his life. He was paralyzed by the contrast be- 
tween last night and today. Consequently, he 
made a very good speech indeed, and it had 
some acrid humour in it, too, and the audience 
actually cheered him — although later, when he 
reviewed the incident in his mind, he had to 
admit that the cheers were loudest just after 
he had told the audience to keep the souvenirs. 

135 


136 


ROPE 


Then, when in the custody of the patrolman, 
he went ont to the street, his mood was still 
so concentrated, his anger and depression so 
acute, that he was transported out of the very 
circumstances which caused him to be angry 
and depressed. He realized, with a hazy sort 
of perception, that a tail of small boys had at- 
tached itself to the lodestar of the policeman’s 
uniform; but even at this indignity, his reac- 
tion was curiously impersonal. It was as 
though the spiritual part of him and the ma- 
terial part had got a divorce ; and the spiritual 
part, which was the plaintiff, stood coldly aloof, 
watching the material part tramping down 
Main Street, with a flat-footed policeman beside 
it, a voluntary escort behind, and rumour flying 
on ahead to all the newspapers. He was actu- 
ally too humiliated to sutler from the hu- 
miliation. 

To be sure, this wasn’t by any means his 
first entanglement with the law, but heretofore 
his occasions had been marked by a very dif- 
ferent ritual. He recalled, phlegmatically, 
that whenever, in the old days, a member of the 


EOPE 


137 


motorcycle squad had shot past him, and 
signalled to him to stop, the man had always 
treated him more or less fraternally, in recog- 
nition of the fellowship of high speed. The 
traffic officers had cheerfully delivered a sum- 
mons with one hand, and accepted a cigar with 
the other. There was a sort of sporting code 
about it; and even in Court, a gentleman who 
had been arrested for speeding was given the 
consideration which belonged to his rank, and 
the fine was usually doubled on the assump- 
tion that a gentleman could afford it. But 
this was different. A Devereux — which was 
almost the same thing as a Starkweather — was 
haled along the highway like a common pris- 
oner. And if the Devereux hadn’t been en- 
gaged in that two-for-a-cent, low-class, revolt- 
ing business, — and if Aunt Mirabelle hadn’t 
been Aunt Mirabelle — it couldn’t have hap- 
pened. The spiritual part of him looked down 
at the material part, and wondered how Henry 
Devereux could be so white-hot with passion, 
and yet so calm. 

What would his friends say now? What 


138 


EOPE 


would Bob Standisli say, and Mr. Archer and 
Judge Barklay? And what would Aunt Mira- 
belle not say? This was a grim reflection. 

During the journey he spoke only once, and 
that was to say, brusquely, to his captor : 
“Court isn’t open today, is it?” 

“Nope. But we’re goin’ to a Justice o’ 
the Peace. Might save you a night in the hoose- 
gow. Can’t tell. Orders, anyway.” 

The Justice of the Peace (or, as he took some 
pains to inform Henry, the Most Honourable 
Court of Special Sessions) was a grizzled 
dyspeptic who held forth in the back room of 
a shoemaker’s shop, while the rabble waited 
outside, flattening their noses against the win- 
dow-glass. The dyspeptic had evidently been 
coached for the proceeding ; on his desk he had 
a copy of the ordinance, and as soon as he had 
heard the charge, he delivered a lecture which 
he seemed to have by heart, and fined Henry 
twenty-five dollars and costs. Henry paid the 
fine, and turning to go, stumbled against two 
more policemen, each with his quarry. “Just 
out of curiosity,” said Henry, speaking to no 
one in particular, and in a voice which came so 


ROPE 


139 


faintly to his ears that he barely heard it, 
“Just out of idle curiosity, when the justice 
gets half the fine, isn’t this court open on Sun- 
day for godless profit, too?” And in the same, 
enduring haze of unreality, he paid an addi- 
tional twenty dollars for contempt, and went 
out to the sidewalk. 

He emerged as the focus of interest for a 
large, exuberant crowd of loiterers. A cam- 
era clicked, and Henry saw that the man at the 
shutter was one of the Herald's staff photog- 
raphers. A youthful reporter caught up with 
him, and asked him what he had to say for 
publication. “Say for publication?” repeated 
Henry, dully. “Why, you can say — He 
walked half a block before he completed the 
sentence. “You can say if I said it, you 
couldn’t print it anyway.” 

And although the reporter paced him for a 
quarter of a mile, Henry never opened his 
mouth again. He was curiously obsessed, as 
men under heavy mental pressure are so often 
obsessed, by a ridiculously trivial detail. How 
was he going to enter that forty-five dollars 
on his books? 


140 


ROPE 


He had intended to go straight home to Anna, 
but automatically his steps led him to the Or- 
pheum, where he went into his tiny office and 
sat down at his desk. There were two enve- 
lopes on his blotter; he slit them, diffidently, 
and found a bill from the novelty house which 
had supplied the souvenirs, and a supplemen- 
tary statement from the decorator. 

He opened a fat ledger, took up a pencil, and 
began to jot down figures on the back of one of 
the envelopes. Already, by remodelling the 
the theatre, he had lost two month’s headway, 
and spent three times too much money, and 
if Sunday performances were to be eliminated. 
... He threw down the pencil, and sat 
back spiritless. The good-wishes of all his 
friends, last night, had turned sour in his pos- 
session. To reach his goal, he should have 
to contrive, somehow, to fill nearly every seat 
at nearly every performance for the balance 
of the year. It was all well enough to have 
self-confidence, and courage, but it was better 
to look facts in the face. He had come to an 
impasse. Not only that, but overnight his 
property, by virtue of this Sunday enforcement 


ROPE 


141 


and its effect upon the trade, had seriously 
depreciated in value. If it had been worth 
thirty-seven thousand five hundred yesterday, 
it wasn’t worth a penny more than twenty to- 
day. And he could have had Standish’s certi- 
fied check, and got out from under. And he 
had thrown away in improvements almost every 
cent that he had borrowed against the original 
value. He was hardly better off, today, than 
if he had carried through his first bargain with 
Mr. Mix. 

He would have to go home to Anna, and con- 
fess that he was beaten by default. He would 
have to explain to her, as gently as he could, 
that the road which led to the end of the rain- 
bow was closed to traffic. He would have to 
admit to her that as far as he could see, he 
was destined to go on living indefinitely in a 
jerry-built apartment, with the odour of fried 
onions below, and the four children and the 
phonograph overhead. And Anna would have 
to go on pinch-hitting for cook, and waitress, , 
and chambermaid, and bottle-washer — she 
would have to go on with the desecration of 
her beautiful hands in dish-water, and the ruin 


142 


ROPE 


of her complexion over the kitchen-stove. The 
clothes that he had planned to buy for her, the 
jewels, the splendid car — the cohort of servants 
he had planned for her — the social prestige! 
And instead of that, he was nothing but a frag- 
ment of commercial driftwood, and he couldn’t 
afford, now, to buy her so much as a new hat, 
without a corresponding sacrifice. 

And yet — involuntarily, he stiffened — and 
yet he’d be hanged if he went back and acted 
like a whipped pup. No, he was supposed to 
be a man, and his friends and Anna believed in 
him, an he’d be hanged if he went back and 
confessed anything at all, admitted anything. 
It was all well enough to look facts in the face, 
but it was better still to keep on fighting un- 
til the gong rang. And when he was fighting 
against the cant purity and goodness of Mr. 
Mix, and the cold astigmatism of Aunt Mira- 
belle, he’d be hanged if he quit in the first 
round. No, even if Henry himself knew that 
he was beaten, nobody else was going to know 
it, and Anna least of all. 

At five o’clock, he came blithely into his liv- 
ing-room : and as he saw Anna ’s expression, his 


ROPE 


143 


own changed suddenly. He had thought to 
find her in tears; but she was coming to him 
with her usual welcome, her usual smile. 

Henry didn’t quite understand himself, but 
he was just the least bit offended, regardless 
of his relief. You simply couldn’t tell from 
one minute to the next what a woman was going 
to do. By all precedent, Anna should have 
been enjoying hysterics, which Henry had come 
prepared to treat. 

“Well,” he said, “you’d better cancel that 
order for golden pheasants, old dear.” She 
stopped short, and stared at him curiously, as 
though the remark had come from a stranger. 

“We’ve got lamb chops tonight,” said Anna, 
with whimsical relevance, “and fresh straw- 
berry ice-cream. And pheasants are awfully 
indigestible, anyway. ’ ’ 

Henry returned her stare. “What have you 
been doing all the afternoon — reading Marcus 
Aurelius?” 

“No, I haven’t been reading anything at all. 
I tidied up the kitchen. What happened to 

you?” 

There were two different ways of present- 


144 


HOPE 


in g the narrative, and Henry chose the second. 
He made it a travesty : and all the time that he 
was talking, Anna continued to gaze at him in 
that same curious, thoughtful fashion, as if she 
were noting, for the first time, a subtle varia- 
tion in his character. 

“And — aren’t you even mad?” she de- 
manded. “I thought you’d be furious. I 
thought you’d be tearing your hair and — and 
everything. ” 

Henry laughed explosively. “Impatience, 
as I’ve pointed out so often to Aunt Mirabelle, 
dries the blood more than age or sorrow. Yes, 
I’m mad, but I’ve put it on ice. I’m trying to 
work out some scheme to keep us in the running, 
and not give Mix too good an excuse to hoot at 
us. No — they say it’s darkest just before the 
dawn, so I’m trying to fix it so we’ll be sitting 
on the front steps to see the sunrise. Only so 
far I haven’t had a mortal thought.” 

“As a matter of fact,” she confided, “I 
loathed the idea of our running the Orpheum on 
Sundays. Didn ’t you ? ’ ’ 

“Naturally. Also on Thursdays, Saturdays, 
Mondays, Fridays, Wednesdays and Tuesdays. 


ROPE 


145 


But Sundays did sort of burrow a little further 
under my tough hide. And you know that’s 
quite an admission for anybody that was 
brought up by Aunt Mirabelle.” He smiled 
in reminiscence. “She used to make virtue so 
darned scaly and repulsive that it’s a wonder 
I’ve got a moral left. As it is, my conscience 
may be all corrugated like a raisin, but I’m 
almost glad we can’t run Sundays. That is, I 
would be if my last remaining moral weren’t 
going to be so expensive.” 

“Don’t you think they’ll probably change 
that ordinance now, though? Don’t you think 
people will insist on it? After today?” 

“Guess work,” said Henry. “Pure guess- 
work. But my guess is that we’re ditched.” 

“Well, why don’t you join the Exhibitors 
Association, and fight?” 

He shook his head. “No, because that’s just 
what Mix and Aunt Mirabelle expect me to do. 
This campaign of theirs is impersonal towards 
everybody else, but it’s slightly personal 
towards me. I mean, Aunt Mirabelle ’s sore on 
general principles, and Mix is sore because I 
wouldn’t come up and eat out of his hand and 


146 ROPE 

get myself sheared. We won’t fight. We’ll 
outwit ’em.” 

“But how?” 

“Now that question,” he said reproachfully, 
“was mighty tactless. 1 don’t know how. 
But I know I ’m not going to stick my head over 
the ramparts for ’em to shoot at. I’m no 
African Dodger — I’m an impresario. Maybe 
they’ll hit me in the eye, all right, hut I’m not 
going to give ’em a good cigar for it.”* 

6 ‘ I know, dear, but how are we going to make 
up all that tremendous loss?” 

“Sheer brilliance,” said Henry, easily* 
“Which is what I haven’t got nothing but, of. 
So I’m banking on you. . . . And in the mean- 
time, let’s go ahead with the orgy of lamb chops 
you were talking about. I’m hungry.” 

They spent the evening in a cheerful discus- 
sion of ways and means, during which she was 
continually impressed by Henry’s attitude. 
From earlier circumstances she had gathered 
that when he was under fire, his i*ash impulsive- 
ness would remain constant, and that only his 
jocular manner would disappear; furthermore, 
she knew that in spite of that manner, he was 


ROPE 


147 


a borrower of trouble. And yet Henry, who 
had a pretty legitimate reason to be bristling 
with rancour', sat and talked away as assuredly 
as though this hadn’t been his doomsday. 

She left him, once, to answer the telephone, 
and when she came back, she caught him off 
guard, and saw his face in repose-. Henry 
wasn’t aware of it; and when he heard her 
footsteps, he looked up with an instantaneous 
re-arrangement of his features. But Anna had 
seen, and Anna had understood ; she sensed that 
Henry, for a generous purpose, had merely 
adopted a pose. Secretly, he was quite as tor- 
mented, quite as desperate, as she had ex- 
pected him to be. 

Her heart contracted, but for Henry’s sake, 
she closed her eyes to the revelation, and 
resumed the discourse in the same key which 
Henry had set for it. Far into the night they 
exchanged ideas, and half-blown inspirations, 
but when Henry finally arose, with the remark 
that it was time to wind the clock and put out 
the cat, they had come to no conclusion except 
that something wmuld certainly have to be done 
about it. “Oh, well,” said Henry, indulgently, 


148 


EOPE 


“a pleasant evening was reported as having 
been bad by all, and nothing was settled — so it 
was just as valuable as a Cabinet Meeting.’ ’ 

The sight of the silver tea-service, however, 
sent him to bed with renewed determination. 

In the morning, he dreaded to open his news- 
paper, but when he had read through the story 
twice, he conceded that it wasn’t half as yellow 
as he feared. No, it was really rather conser- 
vative, and the photograph of him wasn’t 
printed at all; he read, with grim satisfaction, 
that another culprit, somewhat more impetuous, 
had smashed the camera, and attempted io 
stage a revival of his success upon the photog- 
rapher. 

He had been fully prepared to find himself 
singled out for publicity, and he was greatly 
relieved. To be sure, there was a somewhat 
flippant mention of his relationship to Mira- 
belle, but it wasn’t over-emphasized, and alto- 
gether, he had no justification for resentment 
— that is, at the Herald. The Herald had 
merely printed the news; what Henry resented 
was the fact. 


ROPE 


149 


He turned to the editorial page and found, as 
he had imagined, a solid column of opinion ; but 
to his amazement, it made no protest of yester- 
day^ event — on the contrary, it echoed Judge 
Barklay. It said half a dozen times, in half a 
dozen different ways, that a bad law ought to be 
repealed, a good law ought to be preserved, and 
that all laws, good or bad, as long as they were 
written on the books, ought to be enforced. 
Henry was mystified; for the Herald had 
always professed to be in utter sympathy with 
the workingman. 

Later in the day, however, he saw the leading 
exhibitor in town, who winked at him. ‘ ‘Clever 
stutf, Devereux, clever stuff. ’Course, if we 
put up a roar, they ’ll say it ’s because we ’ve got 
an ax to grind. Sure we have. But the 
Herald wants the people — the people that come 
to our shows — to get up and blat. Then it 
wouldn’t be the League against the Association 
— it ’d be the people against the League, and the 
laugh’d be on the other foot.” 

“What’s the betting?” 

“Search me. But Mayor Rowland told me if 


150 


HOPE 


we got up a monster petition with a thousand or 
two names on it, he ’ll bring it up to the Council. 
We’re puttin’ up posters in the lobby.” 

Henry’s heart jumped. “But suppose the 
people don’t sign?” 

“Well then we’d be out o’ luck. But there’s 
other ways o’ goin’ at that damn League, and 
we’re goin’ to use all of ’em. And that re- 
minds me, Devereux — ain’t it about time for 
you to join the Association?” 

“I’m afraid not. I ought to, but — you see, 
you’re going to make things as hot as you can 
for the League — personalities, and all that, and 
when my aunt is president of it — ” 

“But great guns! What’s she done to 
youV’ 

“I know, but I can’t help that. You go 
ahead and rip things up any way you want to, 
but I’d better stay out. It may be foolish, but 
that’s how I feel about it.” 

“It’s your own affair. I think you’re too 
blamed easy, but you suit yourself. . . . And 
about the big noise, why I guess all we can do is 
wait and see what happens.” 

Mis§ Starkweather, who met him on the 


ROPE 


151 


street that morning, told him the same thing. 
“Some people,” she remarked, altitudinonsly, 
“are always getting their toes stepped on, 
aren’t they? Well, there’s another way to 
look at it — the toes oughtn’t to have been 
there.” 

“Oh, give us time,” said Henry, pleasantly. 
“Even the worm turns, you know.” 

“Humph!” said Aunt Mirabelle. “Let a 
dozen worms .do a dozen turns ! I never 
thought I’d see the day when a Devereux — 
almost the same thing as a Starkweather — ’d 
figure in a disgrace such as yours. You’ve 
heaped muck on your uncle’s parlour-carpet. 
But some day you ’ll see the writing on the wall, 
Henry. ’ ’ 

He was tempted to remind her of another city 
ordinance against bill-posting, but he refrained, 
and saved it up for Anna. 

“I’ll watch for it,” he said. 

“Well, you better. All 7’ve got to say is 
this: you just wait and see what happens.” 

And then, to complete the record, he got 
identically the same suggestion from Bob 
Standish. 


152 


ROPE 


“I suppose,” said Standish, “maybe you’re 
wishing you ’d taken that check. ’ ’ 

“Not that, exactly — but I’ve thought about 
it.” 

“Strikes me that you’re in the best position 
of anybody in town, Henry. You’ve got a 
following that’ll see you through, if it’s 
humanly possible. 

“Sounds like passing the hat, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, no. And the side that scores first 
doesn’t always win the game, either — I dare 
say you’ve noticed it. It’ll come out all right 
— you just wait and see what happens.” 

Henry waited, and he saw. And to Henryk 
dismay, and to the Mayor’s chagrin, and to 
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather’s exceeding com- 
placence, nothing happened at all. 

The public petition, which had been adver- 
tised as “monstrous,” caught hardly five hun- 
dred names, and two thirds of them were Mr. 
A. Mutt, Mr. 0. Howe Wise, Mr. 0. U. Kidd, 
and similar patronymics, scribbled by giggling 
small boys. The blue-law was universally un- 
popular, and no doubt of it, but the citizenry 
hesitated to attack it; the recent landslide for 


EOPE 


153 


prohibition showed an apparent sentiment 
which nobody wanted to oppose — Why, if a 
man admitted that he was in favour of Sunday 
tolerance, his friends (who of course were go- 
ing through exactly the same mental rapids) 
might put him down in the same class with 
those who still mourned for saloons. Each 
man waited for his neighbour to sign first, and 
the small boys giggled, and filled up the lists. 
Besides, there was a large amusement park just 
beyond the city line, and the honest workingman 
proceeded to pay his ten-cent fare, and double 
the profit of the park. 

The Exhibitors Association put up its fists 
to the Mayor, and the Mayor proposed a pub- 
lic hearing, with the Council in attendance. 
At this juncture the Reform League sent a 
questionnaire to each Councillor, and to each 
member of the Association. The phraseology 
was Socratic (it was the product of Mr. Mix’s 
genius) and if any one answered Yes, he was 
snared: if he said No, he was ambushed, and if 
he said nothing he was cooked. It reminded 
the Mayor of the man who claimed that in a 
debate, he would answer every question of his 


154 


EOPE 


adversary with a simple No or Yes — and the 
first question was: 4 ‘ Have you stopped beat- 
ing your wife?” 

The Exhibitors held a meeting behind closed 
doors, and gave out the statement that nothing 
was to be gained by a public hearing. But 
they launched a flank attack on the Council only 
to discover that the Council was wide awake, 
and knew that its bread was buttered on one 
side only. 

“We are listening,” said the Chairman, with 
statesmanlike dignity, “for the voice of the 
people, and so far we haven’t heard a peep. It 
looks as if they don’t want you fellows to run 
Sunday’s, don’t it?” 

The spokesman of the Exhibitors cleared his 
throat. “Statistics prove that every Sunday, 
an average of six thousand people — ” 

“That’s all right. We’ve seen your petition. 
And Mr. Mutt and Mr. Kid and most of the 
rest of your patrons don’t seem to be registered 
voters. How about it?” 

The Council burst into a loud laugh, and the 
spokesman retreated in discomfiture. 

For several days, Henry was fairly beseiged 


ROPE 


155 


by his friends, who joked him about his arrest, 
and then, out of genuine concern, wanted to 
know if his prospects were seriously damaged. 
To each interrogatory, Henry waved his hand 
with absolute nonchalance. As far as he knew, 
only six people were in the secret — himself, his 
wife, Judge Barklay, Standish, Mr. Archer and 
Aunt Mirabelle — and he wasn’t anxious to in- 
crease the number. His aunt might not have 
believed it, but this was more on her account 
than on his own. 

“Lord, no,” said Henry, casually. “Don’t 
worry about me, I’m only glad there’s some 
news for the Herald, It was getting so dry you 
had to put cold cream on it or it’d crack.” 

By the time that Judge Barklay returned 
from his vacation, the subject had even slipped 
away from the front page of the newspapers. 
The flurry was over. And out of a population 
of fifty thousand, ninety-nine per cent of whom 
were normal-minded citizens, neither ultra-con- 
servative nor ultra-revolutionary, that tiny 
fraction which composed the Ethical Reform 
League had stowed its propaganda down the 
throats of the overwhelming majority. 


156 


KOPE 


The Judge shrugged his shoulders. “Or- 
ganization,” he said. “They’ve got a leader, 
and speakers, and a publicity bureau. That’s 
all. I hear they ’re going to use it to boom Mix 
for a political job. But you wait — wait, and 
keep on paying out the rope.” 

“That’s all I’ve got left to pay out,” said 
Henry, amiably. 

“Aren’t you doing pretty well, considering?” 

Henry nodded. “We’re doing great busi- 
ness — I mean, anybody else would think so. 
About a hundred and fifty a week net, for the 
first three weeks. And Anna’s salting away a 
hundred and ten of it. Every morning I draw 
a clean handkerchief, and a dime for dissipa- 
tion, and she keeps a clutch on the rest.” 

“Hm! A hundred and fifty. That’s good 
money, Henry.” 

“Well, that’s the only kind we take. But 
you can see for yourself what this thing’s done 
to us. We ought to be averaging two twenty- 
five. And we’d have done it, too.” 

The Judge appeared contrite. “I’m afraid 
you’re blaming me for bad advice, Henry.” 

“No, sir. If I blamed anybody, I’d just 


ROPE 


157 


blame myself for taking it. But I don’t. You 
see, even if I fall down on the first prize, I’ve 
got a pretty good business under way. Eight 
thousand a year.” 

‘ 1 Would you keep on with it?” 

“I’d think it over. It isn’t particularly joy- 
ous, but it sure does pay the rent. Oh, I sup- 
pose I’d try to sell it, if I could get a price for 
it, but Bob says I couldn’t expect a big one, be- 
cause so much of the trade sort of belongs to 
us — and wouldn’t necessarily patronize the 
chap that bought me out. He tells me it was 
worth twenty when I took it, and thirty now, 
and if it weren’t for this law, it would be worth 
fifty. That’s all due to the improvements, and 
you advised me to put ’em in, and you engi- 
neered the mortgage. So I’m not huffy at you. 
Hardly.” 

( 1 Still, you want the big prize if you can get 
it. . . . Notice what Mix is giving out to the 
papers ? He ’ll hang himself yet, and if he does, 
you won’t be too far behind to catch up. 
That’s a prophecy. But by George, I can’t help 
feeling that Mix isn’t in that outfit for his 
health. It just don’t smell right, somehow.” 


158 


ROPE 


The Reform League had jubilantly explained 
to Mr. Mix that he was a liberator and a saviour 
of humanity from itself, and Mr. Mix had 
deftly caught whatever bouquets were batted 
up to him. He had allowed the fragrance of 
them to waft even as far as the Herald office, to 
which he sent a bulletin every forty-eight hours. 
Mr. Mix’s salary was comforting, his expense 
accounts were paid as soon as vouchers were 
submitted, he was steadily advancing in Miss 
Starkweather’s good books, and he considered 
himself to be a very clever man indeed. 

At the very least, he was clever enough to 
realize that his position was now strategically 
favourable, and that as long as he moved 
neither forward nor backward, he was in no 
danger from any s'ource. He had a living 
salary, and he was saving enough out of it to re- 
duce his indebtedness ; in a year he could snap 
his fingers at the world. Furthermore, he 
could see no possibility of legislating himself 
out of his job before that time — certainly not if 
he played his cards craftily, and didn’t push 
his success too far. And by the end of the 


E 0 P E 159 

year, he could select a future to fit the circum- 
stances. 

For the time being, however, it seemed advis- 
able to Mr. Mix to make haste slowly; he had 
turned an impending personal catastrophe into 
a personal triumph, but the triumph could be 
spoiled unless he kept it carefully on ice. The 
failure of the public to rise up and flay the 
League had lifted Mr. Mix into a position of 
much prominence, and conveyed the very 
reasonable supposition that he was individually 
powerful. When a man is supposed to possess 
power, he can travel a long distance on the 
eff ect of a flashing eye, and an expanded chest ; 
also, it is a foolhardy man who, regardless of 
his reputation, engages to meet all-comers in 
their own bailiwick. 

He had committed himself to the preparation 
of an amendment to the ordinance, which should 
be more definite, and more cerulean, than the 
original, but he knew that if he pressed it too 
soon, it might topple back and crush him. The 
people could be led, but they couldn ’t be driven. 
And therefore Mr. Mix, who had naturally 


160 ROPE 

made himself solid with the reactionaries and 
the church-going element (except those liberals 
who regarded him as an officious meddler), and 
who had actually succeded in being mentioned 
as the type of man who would make a good 
Mayor, or President of Council, followed out a 
path which, unless his geography of common- 
sense was wrong, could hardly end at a 
precipice. 

He became, overnight, a terror to the boys 
and young men who rolled dice in the city parks, 
and on the alley sidewalks in the business dis- 
trict; and this was held commendable even by 
the church-goers who played bridge at the 
Citizens Club for penny points. He headed a 
violent onslaught upon the tobacconists who 
sold cigarettes to minors, and this again was 
applauded by those who in their youth had 
avoided tobacco — because it was too expensive 
— and smoked sweet-fern and cornsilk behind 
the barn. He nagged the School Board until 
there went forth an edict prohibiting certain 
styles of dress; and the mothers of several un- 
attractive maidens wrote letters to him, and 
called him a Christian. The parents of other 


ROPE 


161 


girls also wrote to him, but he didn’t save the 
letters. He made a great stir about the 
Sanitary Code, and the Pure Food regulations, 
and although the marketmen began to murmur 
discontentedly — and why, indeed, should the 
grocery cat not sleep in a bed of her own 
choosing; and why should not the busy, 
curious, thirsty fly have equal right of access 
with any other insect? — yet Mr. Mix contrived 
to hold himself up to the public as a live re- 
former, but not a radical, and to the League as 
a radical but not a rusher-in where angels fear 
to tread. It required the equilibrium of a 
tight-rope walker, but Mr. Mix had it. In- 
deed, he felt as pleased with himself as though 
he had invented it. And he observed, with 
boundless satisfaction, that the membership of 
the League was steadily increasing, and that 
the Mayoralty was mentioned more frequently. 
He was aware, of course, that a reform candi- 
date is always politically anemic, but he was 
hoping that by the injection of good-govern- 
ment virus, he might be strong enough to catch 
a regular nomination, to boot, and to run on a 
fusion ticket. From present indications, it 


162 ROPE 

wasn’t impossible. And Mr. Mix smirked in 
his mirror. 

Mirabelle said, with a rolling-up of her mental 
shirt-sleeves : i ‘ W ell, now let ’s get after some- 
thing drastic. I’ve heard lots of people say 
you ought to get elected to office ; well, show ’em 
what you can do. Of course, what we’ve been 
doing is all right, but it’s kind of small 
potatoes.” 

Mr. Mix looked executive. “ Mustn’t go too 
fast, Miss Starkweather. Can’t afford to make 
people nervous.” 

* i Humph! People that don’t feel guilty, 
don’t feel nervous. I say it’s about time to 
launch something drastic. Next thing for us 
to do is to make the League a state-wide 
organization, and put through a Sunday law 
with teeth in it. That amusement park’s got 
to go. Maybe we’d better run over to the 
capital and talk to the Governor.” 

Mr. Mix was decisively opposed, but he 
couldn’t withstand her. He had a number of 
plausible arguments, but she talked them into 
jelly, and eventually dragged him to an inter- 


ROPE 163 

view with the Governor. When it was over, 
she beamed victoriously. 

“ There! Didn’t I tell you so? He’s with 
us.” 

Mr. Mix repressed a smile. “Yes, he said if 
we draft a bill, and get it introduced and passed, 
he’ll sign it.” 

“Well, what more could he say?” 

He wanted to ask, in turn, what less could be 
said, but he contained himself. “You know,” 
he warned her, “as soon as we put out any 
really violent propaganda, we’re going to lose 
some of our new members, and some of our 
prestige.” 

“Good! Weed out the dead-wood.” 

“That’s all right, but after what we’ve done 
with the food laws and stopping the sale of 
cigarettes to boys, and so on, people are looking 
at us as a switch to chastise the city. But we 
don ’t want them to look at us as a cudgel. And 
this state law you ’ve got in mind hits too many 
people.” 

“Let it hit ’em.” 

“Well, anyway,” he pleaded, “there’s no 


164 


ROPE 


sense in going out and waving the club so every- 
body's scared off. We ought to take six months 
or a year, and do it gradually. And we ought 
to pass a model ordinance here first, before we 
talk about statutes. I’d suggest a series of 
public lectures, and a lot of educational 
pamphlets for a start. I’ll write them my- 
self.” 

She was impatient, but she finally yielded. 
“Well, we’ll see how it works. Go ahead and 
do it.” 

“I will — I’ll have the whole thing done by 
late this spring.” 

“Not ’till then?” she protested, vigorously. 

Mr. Mix shook his head. “Perfect the or- 
ganization first, and begin to fight when we’ve 
got all our ammunition. It’ll take me three 
months to get that ready. So far, all we ’ve had 
is a battle, but now we’re planning a war. I 
want to be prepared in every detail before we 
fire a single more shot.” 

She regarded him admiringly. “Sounds 
reasonable at that. You do it your own way.” 

He was feeling a warm sense of power, and 
yet he had his moments of uncertainty, did Mr. 


HOPE 


165 


Mix, for even with his genius for hypocrisy, he 
sometimes found it difficult to be a hypocrite on 
both sides of the same proposition. His status 
was satisfactory, at the moment, but he mustn’t 
let Mirabelle get the bit in her teeth, and run 
away with him. As soon as ever she got him on 
record as favouring the sort of legislation 
which she herself wanted, Mr. Mix’s power was 
going to dwindle. And Mr. Mix adored his 
power, and he hated to think of losing it by 
too extravagant propaganda. 

There were moments when he wished that 
Henry were more belligerent, so that special 
measures could be taken against him, or that 
Mirabelle were more seductive, so that Mr. Mix 
could be more spontaneous. He knew that he 
was personally responsible for the present 
enforcement; he believed that because of it, 
Henry Devereux didn’t have a Chinaman’s 
chance; he knew that if Mirabelle got her 
legacy, she would have Mr. Mix to thank for it. 
But Henry was too cheerful, and Mirabelle was 
too coy, and the two facts didn’t co-ordinate. 

Certainly there was no finesse in hailing 
Mirabelle as an heiress until Henry’s failure 


166 


ROPE 


was more definitely placarded. To be sure, she 
had plenty of money now, and she was spending 
it like water, hut he knew that it included the 
income from the whole Starkweather estate. 
She probably had — oh, a hundred thousand or 
more of her own. And that wasn’t enough. 
Yes, it was time for Mr. Mix to think ahead; he 
had identified himself so thoroughly with the 
League that he couldn’t easily withdraw, and 
Mirabelle still held his note. Of course, if the 
League could furnish him with a stepping-stone 
to the Mayoralty, or the presidency of Council, 
Mr. Mix didn’t care to withdraw from it any- 
way; nor would he falter in his allegiance as 
long as he had a chance at an heiress. He 
wished that Henry would show fight, but Henry 
hadn’t even joined the Exhibitors Association. 
It was so much easier to fight when the other 
fellow offered resistance. Henry merely 
smiled; you couldn’t tell whether he were de- 
spondent or not. But if he wouldn’t fight, 
there was always the thin possibility that he 
might be satisfied with his progress. And that 
would be unfortunate for Mr. Mix. 


ROPE 


167 


There was something else ; suppose Mirabelle 
got her legacy, and Mr. Mix volunteered to 
share it with her. He was reasonably confident 
that she would consent; her symptoms were 
already on the surface. But how, in such 
event, could Mr. Mix regulate the habits which 
were so precious to him? How could he hide 
his fondness for his cigar, and his night-cap, his 
predilection for burlesque shows and boxing 
bouts and blonde stenographers? It was diffi- 
cult enough, even now, and he had eaten enough 
trochees and coffee beans to sink a frigate, and 
he had been able only once to get away to 
New York — “to clean up his affairs.” How 
could he manage his alternative self when Mira- 
belle had him under constant and intimate 
supervision ? 

Still, all that could be arranged. For twenty 
years he had gone to New York, regularly, on 
irregular business and not a soul in town was 
any the wiser; it was simply necessary to dis- 
cover what “business” could summon him if he 
were married, independent, and a professional 
reformer. Mr. Mix, who was always a few 


168 


ROPE 


lengths ahead of the calendar, procured the ad- 
dresses of a metropolitan anti-cigarette con- 
ference, and a watch-and-ward society, and 
humbly applied by mail for membership. An 
alibi is exactly the opposite of an egg; the 
older it is, the better. 


CHAPTER X 


W HEN Henry told his wife that he was 
counting on her for brilliant ideas, he 
meant the compliment rather broadly; for he 
couldn’t imagine how a girl brought up as Anna 
had been brought up could supply any practical 
schemes for increasing the patronage of a 
motion-picture theatre. Indeed, when she 
brought him her first suggestion he laughed, 
and kissed her, and petted her, and while he 
privately appraised her as a dear little 
dreamer, he told her that he was ever so much 
obliged, but he was afraid that her plan 
wouldn ’t work. 

“You see,” he said, “you haven’t had very 
much experience in this business — ” 

“Methuselah!” she retorted, and Henry 
laughed again. 

“That’s no way for a wife to talk. When I 
mention business you’re supposed to look at me 
with ill-concealed awe. But to get down to 
169 


170 


ROPE 


brass tacks, I’ve watched the audiences for four 
or five weeks, and I am beginning to size them 
up. And I don’t believe you can put over any 
grand-opera stuff on ’em.” 

“It doesn’t make the least bit of difference 
whether it’s grand-opera or the movies, my 
lord. It’ll work.” 

He shook his head dubiously. “Well, even 
suppose it would, I still don’t like it. You 
don’t make friends simply to use ’em for your 
own purposes.” 

‘ ‘ Why, of course not. But after you ’ve made 
’em, you ’re silly not to let ’em help you if they 
can. And if they want to. And if they don’t 
then they aren’t really your friends, are they? 
It’s a good way to find out.” 

Henry frowned a little. “What makes you 
think it would work?” 

“Human nature. ... Now you just think it 
all over from the beginning. All our friends 
come to the Orpheum some night, don’t they? 
They’d go to some picture, anyway, but they 
come to the Orpheum for two reasons — one’s 
because it’s a nice house now, and the other’s 
because it’s ours. And sometimes they’re in 


ROPE 


171 


time to get good seats, and sometimes they 
aren’t. Well, we aren’t asking any special 
favour of them; we’re just making sure that if 
they all come the same night, they'd have the 
same seats, time after time. And they’ll like 
it, Henry.” 

“But to be brutally frank, I still don’t see 
where we get off any better. ’ ’ 

“You wait. ... So we sell for just one 
particular performance — say the 8.45 one, one 
night a week — season tickets. Boxes, loges, 
and some of the orchestra seats. And it would 
be like opera ; if they couldn’t always come, they 
couldn’t return their tickets, but they could 
give them to somebody else. And that night 
we’d have special music, and — ” 

“Confirming today’s conversation, including 
brutal frankness as per statement, I still don’t 
see — ” 

“Why, you silly. It’ll be Society Night! 
And I don’t care whether it’s movies or 
opera, if you make a thing fashionable, then it 
gets everybody — the fashionable ones, and then 
the ones who want to be fashionable, and finally 
the ones who know they haven’t a ghost of a 


172 E 0 P E 

chance, and just want to go and look at the 
others ! ’ ’ 

Henry laboured with his thoughts. ‘ ‘ Well, 
granted that we could herd the hill crowd in 
there, and all that, I still don’t — ” 

‘‘Why, Henry darling! Because we’d make 
it Monday night — that’s our worst night in the 
whole week, ordinarily — and have all reserved 
seats that night, and then of course we’d raise 
the prices ! ’ ’ 

“Oh!” said Henry. “Now I get it. I 
thought it was just swank.” 

“And it’s true — it’s true that if you get 
people to thinking there’s something exclusive 
about a shop, or a hotel, or a club, or even a 
theatre, they’ll pay any amount to get in. And 
our friends don’t care when they come, and 
they’ll love all sitting together in the boxes, or 
even in the orchestra.” 

“Who was Methuselah’s wife?” asked 
Henry, irrelevantly. 

“Why, he had several, didn’t he?” 

“Cleopatra, Portia, Minerva, Nemesis, and 
the Queen of Sheba,” said Henry, “and you’re 


ROPE 


173 


all five in one package. I retract everything 
I said. And if I may be permitted to kiss the 
hem of your garment, to show I’m properly 
humbled, why — in plain English, that idea has 
a full set of molars!” 

He left the mechanics of it to Anna,, who 
merely conferred with Bob Standish, and then 
with one of her girl-friends, and sent out a little 
circular among the high elect; hut even Anna 
was amazed at the prompt response. The re- 
sponse was due partly to friendship, and partly 
to convenience, but whatever the reason, Anna 
brought in checks for a hundred season-tickets, 
and turned the worst night of the week into the 
best. As she had sensed, because the insiders 
of society were willing to commit themselves to 
Monday, the outsiders would have paid four 
times, instead of merely double, to be there, too. 
It was socially imperative. 

‘ ‘ That boosts us up another fifty a week,” 
said Henry appreciatively. “And we must 
have a thousand in the bank, haven’t we? . . . 
Say, Anna, this bread and cheese racket is all 
right when you can’t afford anything else, but 


174 


ROPE 


honestly, won’t yon just get a cook? I don’t 
care if she’s rotten, but to think of you giving 
those dishes a sitz-bath twice a day — ” 

“Not yet, dear. We aren’t nearly out of the 
woods. Society Night’s helped a lot, but we 
aren’t averaging over two hundred and twenty 
yet, are we? That’s eighty a week short. So 
if we don’t think up some more schemes, why, 
what we’re saving now’ll have to be our capital 
next year.” 

“But when a man has this much income — ” 

“Yes, and you owe ten thousand on a 
mortgage, and the tax bills haven’t come in yet, 
and you’ll have an income tax to pay. . . . 
W e ’ll save awhile longer. ’ ’ 

It was greater heroism than he realized, for 
she had never lost, for a single instant, her ab- 
horrence of the kitchen ; nor was she willing to 
cater to her prejudice, and work with only the 
tips of her fingers. She had two principal de- 
fences — she wore rubber gloves, and she sang — 
but whenever she had to put her hands into 
greasy water, whenever she scrubbed a kettle, 
whenever she cleaned the sink, a series of cold 
chills played up and down her spine as fitfully 


HOPE 


175 


as a flame plays on the surface of alcohol. She 
detested every item which had to do with that 
kitchen ; and yet, to save Henry the price of a 
cook — now seventy dollars a month — she sacri- 
ficed her squeamishness. There were nights 
when she simply couldn't eat — she couldn't 
draw a cloud over her imagination, and forget 
what the steak had looked like, and felt like, un- 
cooked. There were six days in seven when the 
mere sight of blackened pots and pans put her 
nerves on edge. But she always remembered 
that Henry was supposed to be irresponsible, 
and that a penny in hand is worth two in pros- 
pect; so that she sang away, and tried to 
dispel her thoughts of the kitchen by thinking 
about the Orpheum. 

It was in early December that she conceived 
the Bargain Matinee, which wasn't the ordinary 
cut-price performance, but the adaptation of 
an old trick of the department stores. The 
Tuesday and Friday matinees were the poorest 
attended, so that Anna suggested — and Henry 
ordered — that beginning at half past four on 
Tuesdays and Fridays, the fifty-cent seats were 
reduced at the rate of a cent a minute. In other 


176 


KOPE 


words, the Orpheum challenged the public to 
buy its entertainment by the clock; a person 
who came a quarter hour late saved fifteen 
cents, and the bargain-hunter who could find a 
vacant seat at twenty minutes past five could 
see the last two reels for nothing. It didn’t 
bring in a tremendous revenue, but it caught 
the popular fancy, and it was worth another 
thirty dollars a week. 

And Anna discovered, too, that the unfinished 
second story of the theatre had possibilities. 
She had it plastered and gaily papered, she put 
up a frieze of animals from Noah’s ark; she 
bought toys and games and a huge sand-box — 
and for a nominal fee, a mother could leave her 
angel child or squalling brat, as the case might 
be, in charge of a kindergarten assistant, and 
watch the feature film without nervousness or 
bad conscience. There was no profit in it, as 
a department, but it was good advertising, and 
helped the cause. 

In the meantime Henry, who at this season 
of the year would ordinarily have gone to Lake 
Placid for the winter sports or to Pinehurst 
for golf, was watching the rise and fall of the 


ROPE 


177 


box-office receipts as eagerly as be would bave 
watched tbe give and take of match-play in 
tournament finals. He kept his records as 
perfectly, and studied them with as much zest, 
as once he had kept and studied the records of 
the First Ten in the tennis ranking, and of all 
teams and individuals in first-class polo. To 
Henry, the Orpheum had long ceased to be a 
kitchen; he had almost forgotten that a few 
months ago, his soul had been corrugated with 
goose-flesh at the prospect of this probation. 
Since August, he had done more actual work 
than in all his previous life, and the return from 
it was approximately what his allowance had 
been from Mr. Starkweather, but Henry had 
caught the spark of personal ambition, and he 
wouldn’t stop running until the race was over. 
He wouldn’t stop, and furthermore he wouldn’t 
think of stopping. But now and then he 
couldn ’t help visualizing his status when he did 
stop, or was ruled off the track. 

He hadn’t quite recovered, yet, from his 
surprise at the continuing reaction of his 
friends. He was deeply touched by the realiza- 
tion that even those who were most jocular were 


178 


ROPE 


regarding him with new respect. Instead of 
losing caste, he seemed to have risen higher 
than before ; certainly he had never been made 
to feel so sure of his place in the affection of his 
own set. And almost more satisfactory than 
that, the older men in the Citizens Club were 
treating him with increasing friendliness, 
whereas in the past, they had treated him 
rather as an amusing young comedian, to be 
laughed at, but not with. And finally, he was 
flattered by the growing intimacy with Mr. 
Archer. 

“A year ago,” Mr. Archer once said to him, 
“I used to think you were a spoiled brat, Henry. 
Now I think you’re — rather a credit to your 
uncle.” 

Henry grinned. “And I used to think some 
very disrespectful things about you, and now 
I ’d rather have you on my side than anybody I 
know. I must have been a raw egg.” 

“You’ll win out yet, my boy — Ted Mix to the 
contrary notwithstanding.” 

“Oh, sure!” said Henry, optimistically. “I 
don’t gloom much — only fifteen minutes a day 
in my own room. I got the habit when I was 


ROPE 


179 


taking my correspondence course on efficiency.” 

Even in these occasional sessions of gloom, 
however, (and his estimate of time was fairly 
accurate) he never felt any acute antagonism 
either towards his aunt or towards Mr. Mix, 
he never felt as though he were in competition 
with them. He was racing against time, and it 
was the result of his own individual effort 
which would go down on the record. As to his 
aunt, she had been perfectly consistent; as to 
Mr. Mix, Henry didn’t even take the trouble to 
despise him. He carried over to business one 
of his principles in sport — if the other fellow 
wanted so badly to win that he was willing to 
cheat, he wanted victory more than Henry did, 
and he was welcome to it. After the match was 
over, Henry might volunteer to black his eye 
for him, but that was a side issue. 

Mr. Mix had said to him, sorrowfully, at the 
Citizens Club: “One of the prime regrets of 
my life, Henry, was that you — the nephew of 
my old friend — should have suffered — should 
have been in a position to suffer — from the 
promotion of civic integrity.” 

Henry laughed unaffectedly. “Yes,” he 


180 B 0 P E 

said, “it must have raised perfect Cain with 
you.” 

“I don’t like your tone, Henry. Do you 
doubt my word?” 

“Doubt it? After I’ve just sympathized 
with the awful torture you must have gone 
through? . . . Tell me something; what’s all 
this gossip I hear about you and Aunt Mira- 
belle? Somebody saw you buggy-riding last 
Sunday. Gay young dog ! ’ ’ 

Mr. Mix grew red. “ Buggy-riding ! Miss 
Starkweather was kind enough to take me out 
to the lake in her car. ’ 9 

“That’s buggy-riding, ” said Henry, affably. 
“Buggy-riding’s a generic term. Don’t blush. 
I was young myself, once.” 

Mr. Mix fought down his anger. “You’re 
very much of a joker, Henry. It seems to run 
in the family. Your uncle — ,x 

“Yes, and Aunt Mirabelle, too.” 

“What?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Henry. “Aunt Mirabelle ’s 
a joker, too. She advised me not to run the 
Orpheum in the first place; she’d rather have 
had me trade it and go into something more re- 


ROPE 181 

spectable, and profitable. Doesn’t that strike 
you as funny? It does me.” 

Mentally, Mr. Mix bit his lip, but outwardly 
he was ministerial. “I’m afraid you’re too 
subtle for me.” 

“I was afraid of that myself.” 

“Isn’t business good?” His voice was so- 
licitous. 

Henry was reminded of what Judge Barklay 
had twice expressed, and for a casual experi- 
ment, he tried to plumb the depths of Mr. Mix’s 
interest. 

“Oh, with a few new schemes I’ve got, I 
guess I’ll clean up eleven or twelve thousand 
this year.” 

Mr. Mix shook his head. 1 1 As much as that ? ’ ’ 

Henry inquired of himself why, to accompany 
a question which was apparently one of mere 
rhetorical purport, Mr. Mix should have shaken 
his head. The action had been positive, rather 
than interrogative. 

“Easy,” said Henry. “Come in next week, 
and see how we’re going to turn ’em away 
I’ve got a new pianist; you’ll want to hear him. 
He looks like a Sealyhan terrier, but he’s got a 


182 


ROPE 


repertoire like a catalogue of phonograph rec- 
ords. I dare the audience to name anything he 
can’t play right off the hat — songs, opera, 
Gregorian chants, sonatas, jazz — and if he 
can’t play it, the person that asked for it gets a 
free ticket.” 

“So — to use a colloquialism — you’re going 
very strong?” 

“To use another colloquialism,” said Henry, 
“we fairly reek with prosperity, and we’re go- 
ing to double our business. That is, unless you 
Leaguers stop all forms of amusement but tit- 
tat-toe and puss-in-the-corner. ” 

Mr. Mix smiled feebly. “One expects to be 
rallied for one’s convictions.” 

Henry nodded, engagingly. “I certainly got 
rallied enough for mine. That justice of the 
peace rallied me for twenty-five to start with, 
and followed it up with twenty more. . . . But 
if you want my opinion, Mr. Mix, you ’ll lay off 
trying to promote civic integrity with a meat- 
ax. All you did with that Sunday row was to 
take a lot of money away from the picture 
houses, and give it to the trolley company and 
the White City — white when it was painted. 


ROPE 183 

And if yon don’t behave, I won’t vote for yon 
next election.” 

Mr. Mix ignored the threat. “Come to a 
meeting of the League some time, Henry, and 
we’ll give yon a chance to air yonr views.” 

He reported the interview to Anna, and she 
seemed to find in it the material for reflection. 
She asked Henry if he thought that Mr. Mix 
was deliberately making up to Mirabelle. 
Henry reflected, also. 


In January, Henry had an interview with Mr. 
Archer, who went over his books with a fine- 
tooth comb, and praised him for his accomplish- 
ment. 

“But it only goes to show how the best inten- 
tions in the world can get all twisted up,” 
said Mr. Archer, gravely. “Here you’ve done 
what you were supposed to do — you’ve done it 
better than you were supposed to do it — and 
then because of that cussed enforcement that 
neither your uncle nor I ever dreamed about, 
you ’re liable to get punished just as badly as if 


184 


EOPE 


you’d made a complete failure. It’s a shame, 
Henry, it ’s a downright shame ! ’ ’ 

“We’re packing ’em in pretty well,” said 
Henry. “I figured out that if we sold every 
seat at every performance we’d collect fourteen 
hundred a week gross. We’re actually taking 
in about eight fifty. That’s a local record, but 
it isn’t good enough.” 

“No, you seem to be shy about — three thou- 
sand to date. You’ve got to make that up, and 
hit a still higher average for the next seven 
months, and I ’m blessed if I can see how you ’re 
going to do it.” 

‘ ‘Oh, well, I ’ll have the theatre. That ’s some- 
thing. ’ ’ 

“Yes, it’ll bring you a good price. But not 
a half of what you should have had. One 
thing, Henry, I wish your uncle could know how 
you’re taking it. As far as I know, you haven’t 
swung a golf club or sat a horse for six months, 
have you?” 

“Oh, shucks! . . . When Uncle John went to 
a ball game, he always liked to see a man run 
like fury on a fly ball. Nine time out of ten 
an outfielder ’d catch it and the batter’d get a 


ROPE 


185 


big boot from the grand-stand. The other time 
he’d drop it, and the batter’d take two bases. 
That’s all I’m doing now. Playing the percent- 
age. And golf takes too much time — even if 
there weren’t snow on the ground — and stable 
feed’s so high 1 can’t afford it. The fool horse 
would cost more to feed than I do myself.” 

“And even if the percentage beats you, 
you’ve got something you never had before, 
Henry, and that’s the solid respect of your 
community. Everybody knows you hated this 
job. Everybody’s back of you.” 

“Up on the farm,” said Henry, thoughtfully. 
“There was a field-hand with a great line of 
philosophy. Some of it was sort of crude, but 
— one day Uncle John was saying something 
about tough things we all have to do, and this 
fellow chimed in and said: ‘Yes, sir, every 
man’s got to skin his own skunk.’ ” 

Mr. Archer smiled and nodded. “Your year 
won’t have been wasted, Henry. And when it’s 
over, if you want to get out of the picture busi- 
ness, you’ll find that you can get a dozen first- 
rate jobs from men who wouldn’t have taken 
you in as their office-boy a season ago. . . . 


186 


ROPE 


Give my love to your wife, Henry, and tell her 
for me that Pm proud of you.” 

1 1 I’ll tell her,” said Henry, “but I won’t be 
proud until I ’ve nailed that skin over the barn- 
door.” 


On his way out, he dropped in for a moment 
to see Bob Standish. Bob was at his old tricks 
again ; and while his competitors in realty, and 
insurance, and mortgage loans, made the same 
mistake that once his classmates and instruc- 
tors and the opposing ends and tackles had 
made, and argued that his fair skin and his in- 
nocent blue eyes, his indolent manner and his 
perfection of dress all evidenced his lack of wit 
and stamina, he had calmly proceeded to chase 
several of those competitors out of business, 
and to purchase their good-will on his own 
terms. It was popularly said, in his own circle, 
that Standish would clear a hundred thousand 
dollars his first year. 

He winked lazily at Henry, and indicated a 
chair. * ‘ Set ! 9 9 said Standish. 1 ‘ Glad you came 


ROPE 187 

in. Two things to ask you. Want to sell? 
Want to rent?” 

“If you were in my shoes, would you sell, 
Bob?” 

“I can get you twenty-eight thousand.” 
“That’s low.” 

“Sure, but everybody knows you’ve got a 
clientele that nobody else could get. Are you 
talking?” 

“I — guess not just yet.” 

“Want to rent? I just had a nibble for small 
space ; you could get fifty a month for that attic 
you’re using for a nursery.” 

“I — hardly think so, Bob. That’s a pet 
scheme of Anna’s, and besides, we need it. It’s 
good advertising. ’ ’ 

His friend’s eyes were round and childlike. 
“Made any plans for the future, Henry? Know 
what you’ll do if you stub your toe?” 

“Sell out and strike you for a job, I guess.” 
“Don’t believe it would work, old man.” 
“Don’t you think so?” 

“One pal boss another? Too much family.” 
Henry looked serious. “I’m sorry you think 
so. I wouldn’t have kicked.” 


188 


HOPE 


“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t give you a job, 
old dear. I like you too well to bawl you out. 
But maybe we’ll do business together some 
other way.” 

As he drove his tin runabout homeward, 
Henry was unusually downcast. He didn’t 
blame Standish — Standish had showed himself 
over and over to be Henry’s best friend on 
earth. But it was dispiriting to realize how 
Standish must privately appraise him. Henry 
recalled the justification, and grew red to think 
of the ten years of their acquaintance — ten 
years of continuous achievement for Standish, 
and only a few months of compulsory display 
for himself. But he wished that Standish 
hadn’t thrown in that last remark about doing 
business together some other way. That 
wasn’t like Bob, and it hurt. It was too infer- 
nally commercial. 

He found the apartment deserted. His shout 
of welcome wasn’t answered: his whistle, in the 
private code which everybody uses, met with 
dead silence. Henry hung up his hat with con- 
siderable pique, and lounged into the living- 
room. What excuse had Anna to be missing at 


ROPE 189 

the sacred hour of his return? Didn’t she 
know that the happiest moment of his whole 
day was when she came flying into his arms as 
soon as he crossed the threshold? Didn’t she 
know that as the golden pheasants fled fur- 
ther and further into the thicket of unreality, 
the more active was his need of her? He won- 
dered where she had gone, and what had kept 
her so late. Was this a precedent, and had the 
first veneer of their companionabilty worn off 
so soon — for Anna? 

A new apprehension seized him, and he hur- 
ried from room to room to see if instead of 
censuring Anna, he ought to censure himself. 
There were so many accidents that might have 
happened to her. Women have been burned so 
severely as to faint: they have drowned in a 
bathtub: they have fallen down dumb-waiter 
shafts: they have been asphyxiated when the 
gas-range went out. And to think that only a 
moment ago, he had been vexed with her. The 
sight of each room, once so hideously common- 
place, now so charming with Anna’s artistry 
and the work of her own hands — her beautiful 
hands which ought to be so cared for — filled 


190 ROPE 

him with contrition and fresh nervousness. 

No, she had escaped these tragedies — yet she 
was missing. Missing, but now half an hour 
late. And downtown there were dangerous 
street-crossings, and dangerous excavations, 
and reckless motorists. . . . Once in a while a 
structural-iron worker dropped a rivet from the 
seventh story ; and there were kidnappers 
abroad. . . . The key turned in the lock, and 
Henry dropped noiselessly into a chair, and 
caught up day-before-yesterday’s paper. 

He greeted her tenderly, but temperately. 
“Well, where ’ve you been?” 

She had to catch her breath. “Oh, my dear , 
I’ve had the most wonderful time! I’ve — oh, 
it’s been perfectly gorgeous! And I’ve got it! 
I’ve got it!” 

He had never seen her keyed to such a pitch, 
and manlike, he attempted to calm her instead 
of rising to her own level. “Got what? St. 
Vitus’ dance?” 

“No! The scheme! The scheme we were 
looking for !” 

Henry discarded his paper. ‘ ‘ Shoot it. ’ ’ 

She waved him off. “Just wait ’till I can 


ROPE 


191 


breathe. ... Do you remember what you told 
me a long time ago about a talk you had with 
your aunt? And she said bye-and-bye you’d 
see the writing on the wall?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I’ve seen it!” 

“Whereabouts?” 

“Wait. . . . And remember your talking to 
Mr. Mix, when he said you ought to go to a 
League meeting and air your views ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I went!” 

He gazed at her. “You what?” 

She nodded repeatedly. “It was a big pub- 
lic meeting. I was going past Masonic Hall, 
and I saw the sign. So I went in . . . oh, it was 
so funny. The man at the door stared at me 
as if I’d been in a bathing suit, or something, 
and he said to me in a sort of undertaker’s 
voice: ‘Are you one of us?’ And I said I 
wasn’t, but I was thinking about it, and he 
said something about the ninety and nine, and 
gave me a blank to till out — only I didn’t do it: 
I used it for something lots better: I’ll show 
you in a minute — and then I sat down, and 


192 


ROPE 


pretty soon Mr. Mix got up to talk, — and you 
should have seen the way your aunt looked at 
him; as if he’d been a tin god on wheels — and 
he bragged about what the League was doing, 
and how it had already purified the city, but 
that was only a beginning — and what a lot more 
it was going to do — oh, it was just ranting — 
but everybody clapped and applauded — only 
the man next to me said it was politics instead 
of reform — and then he went on to talk about 
that ordinance 147, and what it really meant, 
and how they were going to use it like a bludg- 
eon over the heads of wrong-doers, and all 
that sickening sort of thing — and the more he 
talked the more I kept thinking. . . . My dear , 
all that ordinance says — at least, all they claim 
it says — is that we can’t keep open on Sunday 
for profit , isn’t it?” 

Henry was a trifle dizzy, but he retained his 
perspective. “Yes, but who’d want to keep 
open for charity?” 

She gave a little cry of exultation. “But 
that’s exactly what we want to do! That’s 
what we are going to do. And they can’t pre- 
vent us, either. We’re going to keep open for 


ROPE 


193 


a high, noble purpose, and not charge a cent. 
And the more I thought, and Mr. Mix bragged, 
the more I ... so I wrote it all down on the 
back of that blank the man gave me — and there 
it is — and 1 think it’s perfectly gorgeous — 
even if it is mine. Now who’s Methuselah’s 
wife?” 

On the back of the blank there was written, 
in shaky capitals, what was evidently intended 
as the copy for an advertisement. She watched 
Henry eagerly as he read it, and when at first 
she could detect no change in his expression, her 
eyes widened, and her lips trembled impercep- 
tibly. Then Henry, half-way down the page, be- 
gan to grin: and his grin spread and spread 
until his whole face was abeam with joy. He 
came to the last line, gasped, looked up at 
Anna, and suddenly springing towards her, he 
caught her in his arms, and waltzed her madly 
about the living-room. 

When he released her, her hat was set at a 
new and rakish angle, and she had lost too many 
hair-pins, but to Henry she had never looked 
half so adorable. 

“Of course,” he panted, “everybody else ’ll 


194 


EOPE 


do it too, as soon as we’ve showed ’em how—” 

“What — what difference does that make?” 

“That’s right, too. ...” He fairly doubled 
himself with mirth. “Can’t you just see Mix’s 
face when he sees this writing on the wall — of 
the Orpheum?” 

“I — I’ve been seeing it all afternoon. 
When can we start I ’ ’ 

“Eight away. Now/ ’ He stopped, rigid. 
“No, we won’t either. No we won’t. First, 
we’ve got to see the Judge — we’ve got to make 
sure there’s no flaw in it. And then — we won’t 
let anybody copy us !” 

“But how can you stop them?” 

Henry was electric. ‘ ‘ What ’s a movie theatre 
worth on Sunday? When they can’t give a 
show anyway? I’ll rent every house in town 
for every Sunday from now ’till August! I’ll 
have to go slow, so nobody’ll suspect. It may 
take a month, or two months, but what do we 
care? We’ll play it sure. It won’t cost too 
much, and we’ve got the cash in the bank. 
We’ve — ” He paused again, and looked down 
at her, and his voice fell a semi-tone. “I don’t 
know where I get all this we stuff. 7’d have 


ROPE 


195 


spent two-thirds of it by this time. You ’re the 
one that’s saved it — and earned it too, by gosh !” 
He lifted her hands, and while she watched him, 
with shining eyes, he deliberately kissed the tip 
of each of her ten fingers. “That’s where the 
money’s come from,” said Henry, clearing his 
throat. “Out of dish-water. Only tonight 
we’re going out to a restaurant and eat our- 
selves logy, and you won’t wash a damn dish. 
It’s my party.” 


CHAPTER XI 


M ISS MIRABELLE STARKWEATHER 
lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little 
finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. 
Mix’s good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright 
in a gilded chair which was threer sizes too 
small for him, bowed with a courtliness which 
belonged to the same historical period as the 
chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup, 
his eyes met Mirabelle’s. 

“ Seems to me you’ve got on some kind of a 
new costume, haven’t you?” asked Mr. Mix gal- 
lantly. ‘ ‘ Looks very festive to me — very. * ’ 

For the first time since bustles went out of 
fashion, Miss Starkweather blushed; and when 
she blushed, she was quite as uncompromising 
about it as she was about everything else. It 
wasn’t that she had a grain of romance in her, 
but that she was confused to be caught in the 
act of flagging a beau; to hide her confusion, 
she rose, and went over to the furthest win- 

196 


ROPE 


197 


dow and flung it wide open. The month was 
February, and the air was chill and raw, but 
Mirabelle could think of no other pretext for 
turning her back and cooling her cheeks. And 
yet, although she would have perjured herself a 
thousand times before she would admit it, she 
felt a certain strange, spring-like pleasure to 
know that Mr. Mix was only pretending to be 
deceived. 

“Oh, my, no,” she said over her shoulder. 
“I’ve had this since the Flood.” 

Mr. Mix had also risen, to hand her back to 
her seat, and now he stood looking down at her. 
She was wearing a gown of rustling, plum-col- 
oured taffeta, with cut-steel buttons ; and at her 
belt there was a Dutch silver chatelaine which 
had been ultra-smart when she had last worn it. 
Vaguely, she supposed that it was ultra-smart 
today, and that was the reason she had attached 
it to her. From the chatelaine depended a sil- 
ver pencil, a gold watch, a vinaigrette with gold- 
enamelled top, and a silver-mesh change-purse. 
At her throat, she had a cameo, and on her left 
hand, an amethyst set in tiny pearls. Mr. Mix, 
finishing the inventory, seated himself and be- 


198 


ROPE 


gan to tap one foot on the floor, reflectively. 
He was a man of perception, and he knew war- 
paint when he saw it. 

44 Makes you look so much younger/ ’ said 
Mr. Mix, and sighed a little. 

44 Don’t be a fool,” said Miss Starkweather, 
and to dissemble her pleasure, she put an extra- 
sharp edge on her voice. “I don’t wear clothes 
to make me look younger; I wear ’em to cover 
me up. ’ ’ 

4 4 That’s more than I can say for the present 
generation. ’ ’ 

4 4 Ugh!” said Miss Starkweather. 4 4 Don’t 
speak of it ! Shameless little trollops ! But the 
ivorst comment you could make about this pres- 
ent day is that men like it. They like to see 
those disgraceful get-ups. They marry those 
girls. Beyond me.” 

Mr. Mix sneezed unexpectedly. There was 
a cold draught on the back of his neck, but as 
Mirabelle said nothing about closing the win- 
dow, he hesitated to ask permission. 4 4 I’ve 
always wondered what effect it would have had 
on your — public, career — if you hadn’t pre- 
ferred to remain single.” 


E 0 P E 199 

“My opinions aren’t annuals, Mr. Mix. 
They’re hardy perennials.” 

“I know, but do you think a married woman 
ought to devote herself entirely to public af- 
fairs? Shouldn’t she consider marriage almost 
a profession in itself?” 

“Well, I don’t know about that. Duty’s 
duty.” 

“Oh, to be sure. But would marriage have 
interfered with your career? Would you have 
let it? Or is marriage really the higher duty 
of the two?” 

“There’s something in that, Mr. Mix. I 
never did believe a married woman ought to be 
in the road all the time. ’ ’ 

“It was a question of your career, then?” 

Mirabelle put down her cup. “Humph! No, 
it wasn’t. Eight man never asked me.” 

Mr. Mix’s mind was on tiptoe. “But your 
standards are so lofty — naturally, they would 
be.” He paused. “I wonder what your stand- 
ard really is. Is it — unapproachable? Or do 
you see some good in most of us?”' 

Mirabelle sat primly erect, but her voice had 
an unusual overtone. ‘ ‘ Oh, no, I ’m not a ninny. 


200 


ROPE 


But good husbands don’t grow on goose-berry- 
bushes. If I’d ever found a man that had the 
right principles, and the respect of everybody, 
and not too much tom-foolishness — a good, 
solid, earnest citizen I could be proud of — ” 

Mr. Mix interpolated a wary comment, “ You 
didn’t mention money.” 

She sniffed. “Bo I look like the kind of a 
woman that would marry for money?” 

“And in all these — I mean to say, haven’t 
you ever met a man who complied witR these 
conditions?” 

She made no intelligible response, but as Mr. 
Mix watched her, he was desperately aware 
that his moment had come. His next sentence 
would define his future. 

He was absolutely convinced, through his pri- 
vate source of information, that Henry was due 
to fall short of his quota by four or five thou- 
sand dollars; nothing but a miracle could save 
him, and Mr. Mix was a sceptic in regard to 
miracles. He was positive that in a brief six 
months Miss Starkweather would receive at 
least a half million; and Mr. Mix, at fifty-five, 
wasn’t the type of man who could expect to 


POPE 


201 


have lovely and plutocratic debutantes thrown 
at his head. He believed — and his belief was 
cousin to a prayer — that Mirabelle was ab- 
sorbed in reform only because no one was ab- 
sorbed in Mirabelle. Indeed, she had implied, 
a few moments ago, that marriage would cramp 
her activities; but it was significant that she 
hadn’t belittled the institution. Perhaps if she 
were skilfully managed, she might even be 
modernized. Certainly she had been content, 
so far, to be guided by Mr. Mix’s conservatism. 
He hoped that he was right, and he trusted in 
his own strategy even* if he were wrong. And 
every day that he continued moderate in his 
public utterances, and in his actions, he was a 
day nearer to the golden ambition of an elec- 
tive office. 

He was threatened with, vertigo but he mas- 
tered himself, and drew a long, long breath in 
farewell to his bachelorhood. 

“You have heartened me more than you 
know,” said Mr. Mix, with ecclesiastical sober- 
ness. “Because — it has been my poverty — 
which has kept me silent.” He bent forward. 
“Mirabelle, am 1 the right man?” Almost by 


202 


ROPE 


sheer will-power, he rose and came to her, and 
took her hand. She shrank away, in maiden 
modesty, but her fingers remained quiescent. 
Mr. Mix sneezed again, and stooped to kiss her 
cheek, but. Mirabelle avoided him. 

“No,” she said, with a short laugh. “That 
don’t signify — I don’t approve of it much.” 
She wavered, and relented. “Still, I guess it’s 
customary — Theodore. ’ ’ 


Before he left her, they had staged their first 
altercation — it could hardly be called a quarrel, 
because it was too one-sided. Mirabelle had 
asked him without the slightest trace of shyness, 
to telephone the glad tidings to the Herald ; and 
of a sudden, Mr. Mix was afflicted with self- 
consciousness. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give 
a valid reason for it; he couldn’t tell her that 
illogically, but instinctively, he wanted to keep 
the matter as a locked secret — and especially 
to keep it locked from Henry Devereux — until 
the minister had said : Amen. He admitted to 
himself that this was probably a foolish whim, 


ROPE 


203 


a needless precaution, but nevertheless it ob- 
sessed him, so that he tried to argue Mirabelle 
away from the Herald. His most cogent argu- 
ment was that the announcement might weaken 
their position in the League — the League might 
be too much interested in watching the romance 
to pay strict attention to reform. 

* ‘ Humph !” said Mirabelle. “I’m not 
ashamed of being congratulated. Are you? 
But if you’re so finicky about it, I’ll do the tele- 
phoning myself.” 

Whereupon Mr. Mix went back to his room, 
and drank two highballs, and communed with 
himself until long past midnight. 

In the morning, with emotions which puzzled 
him, he turned to the society column of the 
Herald; and when he saw the flattering para- 
graph in type, — with the veiled hint that he 
might be the next candidate for Mayor, on a re- 
form ticket — he sat very still for a moment or 
two, while his hand shook slightly. No back- 
ward step, now! His head was in the noose. 
He wondered, with a fresh burst of self-efface- 
ment, what people would say about it. One thing 
— they wouldn’t accuse him of the truth. No- 


204 


EOPE 


body but Mr. Mix himself knew the whole truth 
— unless perhaps it were Henry Devereux. 
Henry had developed a knowing eye. But 
Henry didn’t count — Henry was beaten al- 
ready. Still, if Henry should actually come out 
and accuse Mr. Mix of — why, what could Henry 
accuse him of? Simply marrying for money? 
If it didn’t make any difference to Mirabelle, 
it certainly didn’f to Mr. Mix. And what booted 
the rest of the world ? Why should he concern 
himself with all the petty spite and gossip of a 
town which wasn’t even progressive enough to 
have an art museum or a flying field, to say 
nothing of a good fight-club? Let ’em gos- 
sip. . . . But just the same, he wished that 
Mirabelle had been willing to keep the engage- 
ment a secret. Mr. Mix was sure to encounter 
Henry, once in a while, at the Citizens Club, and 
he didn’t like to visualize Henry’s smile. 

He was in the act of tossing away the paper 
when his attention was snatched back by a half- 
page advertisement; in which the name of the 
Orpheum Theatre stood out like a red flag. Mr. 
Mix glanced at it, superciliously, but a moment 
later, his whole soul was strung on it. 


205 


ROPE 
THE ORPHEUM 
Educational Motion Pictures 
FREE ! FREE ! FREE ! 

Every Sunday afternoon and evening 
ESPECIALLY HIGH-CLASS ENTERTAINMENT 
of instructive and educational features 
With Sacred Music 
ABSOLUTELY FREE 

to all those who present at the door ticket-stubs from 
the previous week’s performances (bargain matinees 
excepted) showing a total expenditure of Three 
Dollars. 

IN OTHER WORDS 

Two people coming twice during the week, in 75 cent 
seats, come FREE Sunday 

Three people coming twice during the week, in 50 
cent seats, come FREE Sunday 

A PURELY VOLUNTARY COLLECTION 
will be taken up and divided between 
The Associated Charities 
The Starving Children of Belgium and 
The Chinese Famine Fund 
This Sunday 


206 E 0 P E 

THE SWORDMAKER’S SON— an absorbing drama 
of Biblical days 
Next Sunday 

BEN-HUR, in seven reels 

NO ADMISSION FEE BEING CHARGED, AND 
ALL VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS BEING DE- 
VOTED TO CHARITY, THIS ENTERTAINMENT 
DOES NOT FALL WITHIN ANY CITY ORDI- 
NANCE PROHIBITING SUNDAY PERFORM- 
ANCES 

THE ORPHEUM 
Motion Pictures 

Mr. Mix, goggle-eyed, jumped for the tele- 
phone, and called the City Hall, but as soon 
as the Mayor was on the wire, Mr. Mix wrestled 
down his excitement, and spoke in his embassy 
voice. “ Hello — Rowland? This is Mix. I want 
to ask you if you Ve seen an ad of the Orpheum 
Theatre in this morning’s paper? . . . Well, 
what do you propose to do about it?” 

The Mayor answered him in a single word: 
Mr. Mix started, and gripped the receiver more 
tightly. “ Nothing 7 . . . Why, I don’t quite 
get you on that. ... It’s an open and shut 


ROPE 


207 


proposition — No, I most certainly am not try- 
ing to make a pun ; I ’m calling you up in my of- 
ficial capacity. That’s the most flagrant, bare- 
faced attempt to evade a law — Why, an idiot 
could see it! It’s to drive the crowd into the 
Orpheum during the week, so that — ” 

He listened, with increasing consternation. 
“Who says it isn’t a violation? Who? The 
City Attorney?” Mr. Mix was pale; and this 
was quite as uncommon as for his fiancee to 
blush. “When did he say so? . . . What’s 
that? What’s his grounds? . . . Repeat it, if 
you don’t mind — Practically a charitable per- 
formance by invitation — ” 

“Why, sure,” said the Mayor. He realized 
perfectly that Mr. Mix had the League and 
another thousand people of small discernment 
behind him, but the Mayor didn’t want to be 
re-elected, and did want to retire from politics. 
“The Orpheum doesn’t say a fellow that comes 
Sunday has got to prove he spent the money 
for the tickets, does it? Anybody that’s got 
the stubs can come. They’re just as much in- 
vitations as if they were engraved cards sent 
around in swell envelopes. If you’ve got one 


208 


ROPE 


— whether you paid for the invitation or not, or 
if you got it in the mail or picked it up on the 
street, you can go on in. And as long’s no 
money’s taken in over the counter, the City At- 
torney says it’s 0. K. Of course, you can peti- 
tion the Council, if you want to.” 

Mr. Mix was licking his lips feverishly. 
“I’m obliged to you for your advice. We will 
petition the Council — I’ll have it signed, sealed 
and delivered by noon today. . . . And if that 
don’t do, we’ll apply for an injunction. . . . 
And we’ll carry this to the Governor before 
we’re done with it, Rowland, and you know 
what state laws we’ve got to compel a Mayor 
of an incorporated city to do his duty! . . . 
This is where we part company, Rowland. 
You’ll hear from me later !” He slammed down 
the receiver, rattled the hook impetuously, and 
called Mirabelle’s number. 

“Mirabelle . . . good-morning ; have you 
. . . . No, I’m not cross at you, but— Oh! Good- 
morning, dear. . . . This is important. Have 
you seen the Orpheum’s ad in the Herald f 
Isn’t that the most barefaced thing you ever 
saw ? Don’t we want to rush in and — ” 


E 0 P E 209 

She interrupted him. 4 4 Why, no, not when 
it's for charity, do we?” 

Mr. Mix nearly dropped the receiver. 
‘ ‘ Charity ! Charity your grandmother ! It ’s a 
cheap trick to attract people during the week, 
so they ’ll have a show on Sunday in spite of the 
law ! ’ ’ 

‘ 1 Oh, I don’t doubt there’s some catch in it. 
That’s Henry all over. But if the League went 
out and interfered with an educational and sort 
of religious program with a collection for 
charity, we’d — ” 

“Yes, but my dear woman, would we sanc- 
tion a dance for charity? A poker-party? A 
wine-supper? We — ” 

“But there won’t be any dancing or drinking 
or card-playing at the Orpheum, will there?” 

He lost his temper. “What’s the matter 
with you? Can’t you see — ■” 

“No, but I can hear pretty well,” said Mira- 
belle. “I’m not deaf. And seems to me — ” 
She sniffled. “Seems to me you’re making an 
awful funny start of things, Theodore.” 

“My dear girl — ” 

“What?” 


210 


ROPE 


“I just said ‘my dear girl. ’ I — ■” 

“Say it again, Theodore !” 

To himself, Mr. Mix said something else, but 
for Mirabelle ’s benefit, he began a third time. 
“My dear girl, it’s simply to evade the law, 
and— 1 ” 

“But Theodore, if we lift one finger to stop 
the raising of money for the poor starving chil- 
dren in foreign countries, we’d lose every scrap 
of influence we ’ve gained. ’ ’ 

“But this means that all the theatres can 
open again !’* 

“Well, maybe you’d better get to work and 
frame the amendment to Ordinance 147 we’ve 
been talking about, then. And the new statute, 
too. We’ve wasted too much time. But under 
the old one, we can’t go flirting with trouble. 
And if all they do is show pictures like Ben- 
Hur, and The Swordmaker’s Son, why . . . 
don’t you see? We just won’t notice this thing 
of Henry’s. We can’t afford to act too nar- 
row. . . . And I’m not cross with you any 
more. You were all worked up, weren’t you? 
I’ll excuse you. And I could just hug you for 
being so worked up in the interests of the 


ROPE 


211 


League. I didn’t understand. . . . When are 
you coming up to see me? I’ve been awfully 
lonesome — since yesterday. ’ ’ 

Mr. Mix hung up, and sat staring into va- 
cancy. Out of the wild tumult of his thoughts, 
there arose one picture, clear and distinct — 
the picture of his five thousand dollar note. 
Whatever else happened, he couldn’t financially 
afford, now or in the immediate future, to break 
with Mirabelle. She would impale him with 
bankruptcy as ruthlessly as she would swat a 
fly; she would pursue him, in outraged pride, 
until he slept in his grave. And on the other 
hand, if certain things did happen — at the Or- 
pheum — how could he spiritually afford to pass 
the remainder of his life with a militant re- 
former who wouldn’t even have money to 
sweeten her disposition — and Mr. Mix’s. He 
wished that he had put off until tomorrow what 
he had done, with such conscious foresight, only 
yesterday. 


CHAPTER XII 


N OW although Mr. Mix had shaken with con- 
sternation when he saw the advertisement 
of the Orpheum, Henry shook with far different 
sentiments when he saw the announcement in 
eulogy of Mr. Mix. It was clear in his mind, 
now, that Mr. Mix wasn’t the sort of man to 
marry on speculation; Henry guessed that 
Mirabelle had confided to him the terms of the 
trust agreement, and that Mr. Mix (who had 
shaken his head, negatively, when Henry esti- 
mated his profits) had decided that Henry was 
out of the running, and that Mirabelle had a 
walkover. The guess itself was wrong, but the 
deduction from it was correct ; and Henry was 
convulsed to think that Mr. Mix had shown his 
hand so early. And instead of gritting his 
teeth, and damning Mr. Mix for a conscience- 
less scoundrel, Henry put back his head and 
laughed until the tears came. 

He hurried to show the paragraph to Anna, 
212 


ROPE 213 

but Anna wouldn’t even smile. She was a 
woman, and therefore she compressed her lips, 
sorrowfully, and said: “Oh — poor Miss Stark- 
weather!” To which Henry responded with a 
much more vigorous compression of his own 
lips, and the apt correction: “Oh, no — poor 
Mr. Mix!” 

He carried his congratulations to his aunt in 
person; she received them characteristically. 
“Humph! . . . Pretty flowery language. . . . 
Well, you don’t need to send me any present, 
Henry; I didn’t send you one.” 

“When’s the happy event to be?” he in- 
quired, politely. 

“June. Fourth of June.” 

“And do you know where you’re going for 
your honeymoon ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t like that word,” said Mirabelle. 
“It sounds mushier than a corn-starch pudding. 
And besides, it’s nobody’s business but his and 
mine, and I haven’t even told him yet. I’m 
keeping it for a surprise.” 

“Oh!” said Henry. “That’s rather a novel 
idea, isn’t it?” 

“Humph!” said Mirabelle, dryly. “The 


214 


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whole things novel, isn’t it? But I’m obliged 
for your coming up here, Henry. I didn’t sup- 
pose you had enough interest in family matters 
to be so nosey, even.” 

Later in the week, Henry encountered Mr. 
Mix, and repeated his congratulations with such 
honeyed emphasis that Mr. Mix began to stam- 
mer. “I appreciate all you say, Henry — but 
— come here a minute.” He drew Henry into 
a convenient doorway. “I’m sort of afraid, 
from the way you act, there ’s something in the 
back of your mind. I’ve thought, sometimes, 
you must have lost sight of the big, broad prin- 
ciples behind the work I’m doing. I’ve been 
afraid you’ve taken my work as if it was di- 
rected personally against you . Not that I’ve 
ever heard you say anything like that, but your 
manner’s been . . . well, anyway, you’re too 
big a man for that, Henry. Now about this 
new scheme of yours. It’s my feeling that 
you’re dodging the law by sliding in the back 
door. It’s my official duty to look into it. Only 
if we do have to put a stop to it, I want you 
to realize that I sympathize with any personal 


ROPE 


215 


loss you may have to suffer. Personally, Pm 
grieved to have to take this stand against John 
Starkweather’s nephew. You understand that, 
don’t you?” 

Henry nodded assent. “Why, certainly. 
Your motives are purer than the thoughts of 
childhood. The only thing I don’t understand 
is what all this has to do with my congratulat- 
ing you?” 

“Oh, nothing whatever. Nothing at all. It 
was just your manner.” 

“Let’s come out in the open, then. How do 
you think you could put a stop to it? Because 
if you could, why, I’ll save you the trouble.” 

Mr. Mix hesitated. “You were always an 
original young man, Henry. But if it’s my 
duty to stop your show, why should I give away 
my plans? So you could anticipate ’em?” 

“No, I’ve done that already.” 

“Now, Henry, that sounds too conceited to be 
like you ” 

“Oh, no, it’s only a fact. But here — I’ll run 
through the list for you. Have me pinched un- 
der the ordinance? Can’t be done; the City 


216 


ROPE 


Attorney’s said so, and I saw the Chief of Po- 
lice was in on it. Get an injunction! You can’t 
do that either, because* — ” 

“Why can’t we!” 

“Because I’ve got one already.” 

Mr. Mix’s jaw dropped. “ What’s that! 
How could you — ” 

“Oh, I got Bob Standish — just as a citizen 
tax-payer — to apply for a temporary injunc- 
tion yesterday, to test it out. It’s being argued 
this morning. Don’t you want to come over 
and hear it! If I lose, I won’t open next Sun- 
day at all; and if I win, then the League can’t 
get an injunction later. . . . What else can you 
do!” 

“We may have other cards up our sleeves,” 
said Mr. Mix, stiltedly. 

“Just the place I’d have looked for ’em,” 
said Henry, but his tone was so gentle and in- 
offensive that Mr. Mix only stared. 

He shook hands with Henry, and hurried over 
to the Court House, where he arrived just in 
time to hear the grey-haired jurist say, dispas- 
sionately : ‘ ‘ Motion denied. ’ ’ 

Mr. Mix swabbed his face, and thought in 


EOPE 


217 


lurid adjectives. He wouldn’t have dared, in 
view of Mirabelle’s opinion, to ask for an in- 
junction on behalf of the League itself, but it 
had occurred to him that he might arrange the 
matter privately. He could persuade one of 
of the old moss-backs that Mirabelle might be 
swayed by her relationship to Henry (this 
struck him as the height of sardonic humour), 
and the moss-back could go into Court as an in- 
dividual, to enjoin the Sunday performance as 
opposed to public policy. But Henry had out- 
stripped him; and furthermore, there was no 
question of judicial favour. The Judge who 
had refused the application was no friend of 
Henry, or of Judge Barklay. And Bob Stand- 
ish’s attorney, who by a fiction was attacking 
Henryk position, had claimed that the Sunday 
show was designed for profit, and that the price 
was merely collected in advance. This would 
have been precisely Mr. Mix’s thesis. Henry’s 
own lawyer had replied that since there was no 
advance in the price of tickets during the week, 
there was no charge for Sunday. A ticket dur- 
ing the week included an invitation. To be 
sure, one couldn ’t get the invitation without the 


218 


ROPE 


ticket, but where was the ordinance violated? 
Would the Court hold, for example, that a gro- 
cer couldn’t invite to a lecture, for charity, on 
Sunday, every one who had patronized his shop 
during the previous week? Would the Court 
hold that an author couldn’t invite to a public 
reading on Sunday, every one who had bought 
his book on Saturday? 

The Court wouldn’t. 

And Mr. Mix, who knew Henry’s income to 
the nearest dollar, went home and got a pencil, 
and covered sheet after sheet with figures. 

Presently, he sat back and laughed. Why, 
he had had his hysterics for nothing! Henry 
couldn’t overcome his handicap unless he 
jammed his house to capacity from now until 
August. No theatre had even yet accomplished 
such a feat. And it wasn’t as though Henry 
had a monopoly on this scheme; in another 
week, all his competitors would be open Sun- 
days, too, with strictly moral shows, and no 
money taken at the door, and he would have the 
same competition as always. And yet, to be 
perfectly safe, (for Henry was fast on his feet) 
Mr. Mix had better frame his amendment to the 


ROPE 


219 


ordinance, and set the wheels in motion. With 
good luck, he could have Henry blanketed by 
April. 

That evening, Mirabelle found him more ani- 
mated than usual; and more lavish with com- 
pliments. 

Since he had first seen Henry’s advertise- 
ment, Mr. Mix had been as uncertain of his 
prospects as a child with a daisy; he had fore- 
seen that it was only a part of a very narrow 
margin of fortune which would determine 
whether he was to be a rich man, poor man, beg- 
gar man — or jilt. Now, however, his confidence 
was back in his heart, and when, on Sunday aft- 
ernoon, he placed himself inconspicuously in 
the window of an ice-cream parlour, squarely 
opposite the Orpheum, it was merely to satisfy 
his inquisitiveness, and not to feed his doubt. 

He had to concede that Henry was clever. 
Henry had introduced more fresh ideas into 
his business than all his competitors in bulk. 
What a customers ’-man Henry would have 
been, if he had entered Mr. Mix’s brokerage of- 
fice! Yes, he was clever, and this present in- 
spiration of his was really brilliant. Mr. Mix 


220 


ROPE 


could see, clearly, just what Henry had devised. 
He had devised a rebate: from a book-keeping 
standpoint he was cutting his own prices during 
the week (for of course the Sunday perform- 
ance was costly to him) but he was cutting them 
in such a subterranean manner that he wouldn’t 
expect to lose by it. Palpably, he thought that 
Orpheum stubs would become negotiable, that 
they would pass almost as currency, that when 
people hesitated between the Orpheum and any 
other theatre, they would choose the Orpheum 
because of the Sunday feature. But did Henry 
imagine that his scheme was copyrighted? Mr. 
Mix had to smile. Across the street, there were 
fully a hundred people waiting for the doors 
to open . . . the doors had opened, and the 
crowd was' filing past the ticket-booth. The 
house would be packed solid from now until late 
evening. But when next Sunday came, and all 
the other houses, relying upon Henry’s triumph 
over the City Attorney and the District Court, 
stole Henry’s thunder. ... It was to laugh. 
Week-day business would be spread thin, as al- 
ways; people could suit their own choice, and 


E 0 P E 221 

have the same Sunday privilege. And this 
would knock all the profit out of it. 

Mr. Mix retired, in the blandest of good- 
humour, and on Monday he visited the manager 
of the largest picture house in town. 

“I suppose,’ ’ he said, “ you ’re going to follow 
the procession, aren’t you?” 

The manager looked at him queerly. “Well 
— no.” 

“Eeally?” 

“No. That bird Devereux put it all over us 
like a tent.” He snorted with disgust. “Man 
from Standish’s office come round here a while 
back and asked for a price for the house for 
Sundays up to August. We thought it was for 
some forum, or something ; and the damn place 
was shut down anyway; so we made a lease. 
Next twenty Sundays for four hundred and 
seventy-five beanos, cash in advance. Then it 
turns up that Standish’s office was actin’ for 
Devereux. ’ ’ 

The bloom of apoplexy rose to Mr. Mix’s 
cheeks. “You mean he — do you know if he 
leased more theatres than this one? Did he?” 


222 


ROPE 


“ Did he! He signed up the whole damn Ex- 
hibitors J Association. There’s twenty-two 
houses in town, and he’s tied up twenty-one 
and he owns the other. Far’s I can find out, 
it only cost him about six thousand to get an 
air-tight monopoly on Sunday shows for the 
next six months.” 

Mr. Mix drew breath from the very bottom 
of his lungs. “What can you — do about it?” 

“Do? What is there to do? All we can do 
is put on an extra feature durin’ the week, to 
try and buck him that way — and it won’t pay 
to do it. He’s got a cinch. He’s got a graft. 
And all the rest of us are in the soup.” 

Mr. Mix was occupied with mental arithme- 
tic. “Tell me this — is it going to pay him?” 

“Pay him!” echoed the manager scornfully. 
“Six thou for twenty weeks is three hundred a 
week. Fifty a day. Twelve-fifty a perform- 
ance. Twelve-fifty calls for about twenty-five 
people. Don’t you think he’ll draw that many 
new patrons, when he can give ’em on Sundays 
what nobody else can? And everything over 
twenty-five’ll be velvet. He’ll clean up two, 
three thousand easy and maybe more. What 


ROPE 


223 


beats me is why he didn’t get leases for the next 
hundred years. We wouldn’t have had the 
sense to block him.” 

“I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Mix, choking 
down his passion. “Because there’s going to 
be a new ordinance. It’ll deal with Sunday en- 
tertainments. And it’s going to prohibit any 
such horse-play as this.” He surveyed his 
man critically. “Does Henry Devereux belong 
to your Association?” 

“No, he don’t. And he won’t either. We 
don’t want him.” 

“Then as long as you people can’t keep open 
Sundays anyway,” observed Mr. Mix care- 
lessly, “maybe you’d find it to your advantage 
to support the Mix amendment when it gets up 
to the Council. It’ll kill off any such unfair 
competition as this.” 

The manager shrugged his shoulders. “If 
it wasn’t for your damn League we’d all be 
makin’ money.” 

“I’m sorry we don’t all see this thing in the 
same light. But as long as the rest of you are 
out of it — ” 

“Oh, I can see that. . . . And you and me 


224 


HOPE 


both understand a little about politics, I should 
imagine. ” He grinned wryly. ‘ 4 N ever thought 
Pd link up with any reform outfit — but why 
don’t you mail me a copy of your amendment, 
and I’ll see how the boys take it.” 

Mr. Mix agreed to mail a copy as soon as 
the final draft was completed, and he was as 
good as his word. On the same evening, he 
read the masterpiece to Mirabelle with finished 
emphasis. 

4 ‘It’s perfect,” she said, her eyes snapping. 
“It’s perfect! Of course, I wish you’d have 
made it cover more ground, but just as a Sun- 
day law, it’s perfect. When are we going to 
offer it to the Council?” 

“Mirabelle,” said Mr. Mix, “we’ve got to do 
some missionary work first. And before you 
can do missionary work, whether it’s for re- 
ligion or politics or reform, you’ve got to have 
a fund.” 

“Fund? Fund? To get an ordinance 
passed? Why don’t you walk in and hand it 
to ’em?” 

He shook his head. “I was in politics a good 


ROPE 


225 


many years. We Ve got to get out printed mat- 
ter, we’ve got to spend something for advertis- 
ing, we’ve got to — approach some of the Coun- 
cillors the right way. ’ ’ 

She sat up in horror. “Not — bribe them!” 

“Oh, dear, no! You didn’t think that of 
me!” 

“No, but when you said \ — ” 

4 4 1 said they had to be 4 approached. ’ I didn ’t 
mean corruption; I meant enlightenment.” 
He rubbed his nose reflectively. 4 4 But the cost 
is approximately the same.” 

4 4 Of course, I trust your judgment, Theodore, 
but . . . how big a fund do you suppose we’ll 
want.” 

4 4 Oh, I should think five thousand would do 
it.” 

4 4 Five — ! Theodore Mix, how could you 
spend five thousand dollars for such a thing? 
There isn’t that much in the treasury ! There ’s 
hardly one thousand.” 

4 4 My dear, if I were in your place, I’d pro- 
tect my ante. I’d — ” 

4 4 What’s all that gibberish?” 


226 


EOPE 


“I said,” he corrected hastily, “we’ve got 
too much at stake to risk any failure when a 
little money would guarantee success.” 

“Would five thousand dollars guarantee it?” 
“If I had that much in cash, to spend here 
and there as I saw the need of it — take one type 
of man out to dinner a few times, where I could 
get close to him — loan another type fifty dollars 
if he asked me for it( and some of ’em would) — 
hire detectives to shadow another type — ” 
“Detectives !” 

“Yes. To check up their habits. Suppose 
we found a man gambling on the sly; we’d 
hold that over his head and — ” 

‘ 4 Humph ! I don ’t like it much, but in a good 
cause it may be justifiable.” 

“And leaflets and circulars and one thing and 
another. . . . But if I have to go out and get 
permission from a finance committee before I 
can let go of a dime, I can’t do anything. I’d 
have to have the money so I could use it exactly 
as I needed it. And if I did, I’ll bet I could get 
support you never dreamed of. Get outside 
people to bring pressure on the Council.” He 
gazed at the ceiling. “Why, with a leeway of 


ROPE 227 

five thousand, I’d even have the Exhibitor’s As- 
sociation with us. I’d have — •” 

1 i Think so?” 

“I know so.” 

“How?” 

“ Because long before I was in the League, 
I was in politics. When I say I know, I know. 
Of course, the Association’s help would only 
go to show that they see the light in respect to 
their own business — it wouldn’t cover all the 
whole scope of the amendment, but even so — ” 

“Theodore, you know politics and I don’t. 
But both of us know the proverb about what 
you catch flies with. So we ’ll try both methods 
together. You can put out the molasses, and 
I’ll put out the vinegar; and between us, we 
ought to get somewhere.” 

“We can’t fail,” said Mr. Mix, sitting on 
needles. 

Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched 
the pigeon-holes. “I’ve been told, Theodore, 
by — people I consider very reliable — that in 
August, dear John’s money will be coming to 
me. ’ ’ This was the first time that she had ever 
broached the delicate subject. “I always 


228 


EOPE 


meant to use some of it for the Leagued 9 She 
had unearthed her check book, and was 
writing words and figures as angular as 
herself. “So really, — this is on account.” 
She came over to hand him the check, and after 
a slight hesitation, she stooped and pecked him 
on the forehead, but immediately afterwards 
she relapsed into her consistently, non-roman- 
tic character. “You better give me an item- 
ized account of how you spend it, though, Theo- 
dore. You better give me one every day. 
We’ve got to be businesslike, even if we are — 
engaged.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


F OR two-thirds of a year, Henry Devereux 
had lived contrary to his independent 
taste, and to his education. He had virtually 
cut himself adrift from the people he liked 
and the pleasures he loved ; his sole luxury had 
been his membership in the Citizens Club ; and 
he had laboured far more diligently and with 
far less respite than his uncle had ever intended. 
He had overcome great difficulties, of which 
the most significant was his own set of social 
fetiches, and he had learned his weaknesses 
by exercise of his strength. He had made new 
friends, and brought the old ones closer to him 
— and this by virtue of honest plugging, and de- 
termination. He was unassumingly proud of 
himself, and he was prouder yet of Anna; he 
knew that the major portion of his accomplish- 
ment — and especially that part of it which had 
taken place within himself — was to be put down 
to Anna’s credit. But the spring was coming 

229 


230 


ROPE 


towards them, and Henry winced to think of 
it. Heretofore, the message of spring, in 
Henry ’s estimation, had been a welcome to new 
clothes, golf, horseback parties, and out-of-door 
flirtations; this season, it meant to him a fall- 
ing-off in the motion-picture business. 

The spring was calling to him, but Henry 
had to discipline his ears. His working hours 
were from eleven in the morning until mid- 
night; he sat, day after day, in his constricted 
office, and glued his mind upon his problems. 
The Orpheum was still a sporting proposition 
to him, but even in sport, there come periods 
in which the last atom of nerve and will-power 
are barely sufficient to keep the brain in motion. 
Henry’s nerves were fagged, his muscles were 
twitching, the inside of his head felt curiously 
heavy and red-hot ; the spring was calling him, 
but he didn’t dare to listen. The spirit of his 
Uncle John Starkweather was waiting to see if 
he came to the tape with his head down, and 
Henry was going to finish on his nerve. 

As a matter of fact, he could easily have 
spared an hour of two each day for exercise and 
recreation, but he wouldn’t believe it. He 


ROPE 


231 


wouldn't yield to Anna when she implored him 
to get out of doors, to freshen his mind and 
tame his muscles. 

The atmosphere of his office almost nause- 
ated him; the endless parade of petty details 
was almost unbearably irksome ; the book-keep- 
ing part of it alone was snub-disintegrating ; 
but to Henry, ambition had become a mono- 
mania, and to it he was ready to make every 
conceivable sacrifice, including — if necessary — 
his health. There were days when he told him- 
self that he would pay a thousand dollars 
merely to have green turf under his feet, blue 
sky above, and no worries in his soul- — but he 
wouldn't sacrifice an hour of supervision over 
his theatre. There were days when he felt that 
he would give up his chance of salvation 
if only he could go away with Anna, up into 
the wooded country, for a week's vacation — 
but he wouldn't sacrifice a week from the Or- 
pheum guardianship. The spring was calling 
him — the golf course, the bridle-paths, the lake, 
the polo — but Henry had put himself in high 
speed forward, and there was no reverse. 
Then, too, he was constantly thinking of Anna, 


232 


ROPE 


who without the daily stimulus that Henry had, 
was cheerfully performing the function of a do- 
mestic drudge. One of his most frequently re- 
peated slogans was that if Anna could stick it 
out, he could. 

While the winter favoured it, his monopoly 
had brought him a splendid return, but the 
first warm days had signalled a serious loss of 
patronage, and Henry couldn’t successfully 
combat the weather. The weather was too glor- 
ious; it called away Henry’s audiences, just as 
it tried in vain to inveigle Henry. And then 
the monopoly had been double-edged; it had 
been a good risk — and without it, he wouldn’t 
have had the slightest chance against the re- 
quirements — but it had been too perfect, too 
prominent. In the beginning, everybody had 
hailed him as a Napoleon because he had van- 
quished his little world of competitors ; but now 
that his laurel was old enough to wilt, he was 
receiving the natural back-lash of criticism. 
Naturally, his personal friends were still de- 
lighted, the older men at the club were still con- 
gratulating him for foresight and ingenuity, 
and Mr. Archer was still complimentary and 


EOPE 


233 


confident : but the great mass of theatre-goers, 
and the mass of self-appointed arbiters of 
business ethics, were pointing to him as a 
follower of the gods of grasp and gripe. More 
disquieting than that, however, were the indi- 
cations of a new crusade, led by Mr. Mix, and 
directed against the Council. The Mix amend- 
ment, which was so sweeping that it prohibited 
even Sunday shows for charity, would auto- 
matically checkmate Henry; and the worst 
of it was that money was being spent with 
some effectiveness. Of course, the amendment 
wouldn’t ever be adopted in toto — it was too 
sweeping, too drastic — but even a compromise 
on the subject of Sunday entertainments would 
be fatal. 

Despite the strain, he was outwardly as blithe 
and optimistic as usual. When Anna pleaded 
with him to take a vacation, he either laughed 
her off in his most jovial manner, or riposted 
that she needed a vacation far more than he 
did, which may have been true; when Judge 
Barklay attempted to reason with him, he re- 
sponded with respectful humour. He had seen 
victory slip within his grasp, and slip out of it, 


234 


ROPE 


so often that he was on the verge of complete 
demoralization, hut he thought that he alone 
was aware of it, and because of his pride, Anna 
didn’t disillusion him. 

Nor did Bob Standish disillusion him. 
Standish tried to bolster him up with under- 
graduate slang, and to convey to Henry the fact 
that all the hill-folk were solidly behind him, 
but he knew better than to come out flat with 
commiseration. Then, too, Standish was con- 
scious of a vague cloud which had come up to 
blur their relationship. He didn’t suspect for 
an instant the true cause of it, which was his 
remark, some months ago, that he wouldn’t 
employ in his office a friend such as Henry; 
but he felt it, and was keenly concerned about 
it. Nevertheless, his own unselfish interest 
never faltered, and he waited patiently, because 
he knew that between himself and Henry there 
could be no permanent misunderstanding. 

Nor did Mr. Archer, Henry’s firm friend and 
ally (insofar as Mr. Archer could separate his 
personality into two separate entities, one of 
which was ally, and the other was impartial 
trustee) disillusion him, although Mr. Archer 


ROPE 


235 


had also eyes to see with. On the contrary, Mr. 
Archer put out numerous remarks which he in- 
tended as lifebuoys. 

“ There was a directors ’ meeting of the Trust 
and Deposit the other day, Henry, and somehow 
they got talking about your account. I 
shouldn’t wonder — if you ever wanted to 
change your business — if they wouldn’t give 
you the opportunity ; and if they did, it wouldn ’t 
be so very long before they’d invite you on the 
Board.” 

Henry disparaged it. ‘ ‘ What as — deputy 
assistant splinter?” 

“You’ve made rather a hit with the older 
crowd, Henry. And even if you aren’t a rich 
man by inheritance next August, I’m not 
worrying about your future.” 

“Neither am I. Not while I’ve got Anna to 
think up my best thoughts for me.” 

The lawyer nodded. “A girl in a thousand, 
Henry.” 

“That’s the worst insult I ever heard! 
The population of the world’s over two bil- 
lion!” 

Mr. Archer laughed, but his eyes showed ap- 


236 


ROPE 


proval. “It’s simply something for 1 you to 
keep in mind, my boy — about the bank. It’s a 
possible career, unless you want to go on with 
the Orpheum. Of course, you’d have to start 
pretty low, at first, but you know as well as I 
do that nobody’s asked to come into that bank 
unless he’s well thought of.” 

Henry didn’t repeat this conversation to Bob 
Standish, because he thought it would sound 
too much like saying “Yah!” nor did he re- 
peat it to his wife, because he thought it would 
sound too egotistical; but on the same day he 
collected another item of news which he un- 
hesitatingly shared with her. 

He said to Anna: “I saw something down- 
town that’ll amuse you. Cigar store with a 
sign in front : Trading Stamps, Premium 
Coupons, and Orpheum Theatre Stubs Bought 
and Sold. If that isn’t a footprint on the 
sands of time I’m going to get measured for 
glasses.” 

She laughed a trifle recessively. “I’ll be 
glad when it’s all over, though. Won’t you?” 

Inspecting her, he realized with a little thrill 
of self-accusation, that Anna had worn herself 


ROPE 


237 


out; she hadn’t had a day’s freedom from 
housework, and she had worked twice as hard 
as he thought necessary. She was very tired, 
and she showed it; but he knew that when 
she wanted the year to be over, she wasn’t 
thinking of herself, but of him. He paid her 
the compliment of accepting what she said, 
without tossing it back as though she had meant 
it for herself. “Well, I told you I’d drag in 
the bearded lady and the wild man of Borneo, 
if I had to. What’s the matter; don’t you like 
the show business ? ’ ’ 

“Of course, we didn’t exactly go into it for 
fun.” 

“I seem to remember your calling it a lark, 
though. ’ ’ 

“I didn’t know it was going to be quite as 
awful as this.” 

“Awful?” 

“You know what I mean — you’re worn out, 
and you look dreadfully — and I didn’t know 
we’d have to do so much — ” She fumbled for 
the word. “What is it when a man stands out- 
side, and tries to make people come in and look 
at the snake-charmer?” 


238 


ROPE 


“Ballyhoo. Would you have wanted me to 
stay out of it, if you’d known?” 

She deliberated. “It’s funny — but I don’t 
think I would. In a way, it’s been good for 
both of us. I’ll just be glad when it’s 
over. . . . What sort of house did you have?” 

Henry put on his best smile. “Not too good. 
Fair.” 

“If we should fall down, after all we’ve done 
— oh, we can't! Henry, we just can't!" 

“I used to know a poem,” he said, “that kept 
asking the question ‘ Where are the snows of 
yesteryear?’ Well, if I could find out, and 
have ’em shovelled back in the street, we’d be 
in a good position. But as soon as the snow 
melted, so did the big crowds. I’ll never look 
a crocus in the face again. They’ve croaked 
us out of a couple of hundred a week, gross.” 

“If we should fall down, do you know who 
I’d be sorry for? The managers of the other 
theatres. We’d just have been dogs in the 
manger. And every time I think about it, I 
don’t feel nearly as smart as I did last January. 
Of course, I suppose it was fair enough, but — ” 

“Fair? Oh, yes. That sort of thing ’ll 


ROPE 


239 


always be fair — as long as there ’s any business. 
Queer, though, when you come to think of it. 
We hadn’t any grudge against the other 
fellows; but they’d have stolen our idea, so we 
had to protect it. If they’d stolen our ten 
dollar bill, they’d have had to go to jail for it; 
but they could have stolen an idea worth ten 
thousand , and we’d just have had to stand back, 
and gibber. As long as that’s fair, then we 
were fair.” 

“I wonder,” she said, “if all monopolists go 
through the same thing — first, they get such a 
wonderful scheme that they hardly dare to go 
to bed for fear they’ll talk in their sleep: 
then they’re crazy for fear it won’t work; then 
it does work, and they think they’re the Lord’s 
anointed; and bye-and-bye they look around 
and feel — sort of apologetic.” 

“Oh. Do you feel apologetic?” 

“I’m looking around, anyway.” 

“You’d better save your energy. Mix’s 
amendment’s coming up pretty soon, and even 
if it doesn’t pass, I don’t see how we’re going 
to compete with this weather. It’s so abomi- 
nably beautiful that it’s — sickening.” 


240 


EOPE 


“Oh — Mix!” she said, scornfully. “It gives 
me the creeps just to hear his name! He’s a 
nasty hypocrite, and a sneak, and a — How long 
do you suppose he’ll be hurrying around with 
that pious air after he gets his money? Why, 
he won’t even stay in the League!” 

Henry grimaced. “You’re wrong. If he 
gets his money, he will stay in the League, and 
I’ll bet on it.” 

There was a short silence. “Henry,” she 
burst out, “everything considered, I believe he 
wants your uncle’s money more than we do!” 

“Whichever one of us gets it, — said Henry 
grimly, “ — He’ll earn it!” 


When he recalled his previous years of 
irresponsibility, he was staggered to realize 
how little a fifty dollar bill had meant to him. 
It had meant a casual request across the break- 
fast table; now, it meant that seventy five or 
a hundred people were willing to pay him a 
few cents apiece for the result of his head- 
aches ; and the absence of those people, and the 


ROPE 241 

failure of those receipts, meant the difference 
between achievement and bitter downfall. 

He had risked everything on his monopoly, 
and added six thousand dollars to his quota. 
For two months, he had carried the double load, 
and beaten his schedule; in early May, he was 
falling behind at the rate of fifty dollars a 
week. With twelve weeks ahead, he faced a 
deficit of a paltry six hundred dollars — and 
the Mix amendment was peeping over the 
horizon. 

He shaved down his expenses to the utter- 
most penny; he ruthlessly discarded the last 
fraction of his class pride, and in emergency, 
to save the cost of a substitute, acted in place 
of his own doorman. He rearranged the 
lighting of the auditorium to save half a dollar 
a day. When the regular pianist was ill, he 
permitted Anna, for an entire fortnight, to 
play in his stead; and during that fortnight 
they ate three meals a day in a quick-lunch 
restaurant. There was no economy so trivial 
that he wouldn’t embrace it; and yet his re- 
ceipts hung steadily, maddeningly, just below 
the important average. Meanwhile, the sub- 


242 


ROPE 


ject of reform crept out again to the front page 
of the morning papers. 

For nine months, Mr. Mix and Henry had 
occupied, mentally, the end seats on a see-saw, 
and as Henry’s mood went down, Mr. Mix’s 
mood went up. By strict fidelity to his own 
afifairs, Mr. Mix had kept himself in the public 
eye as a reformer of the best and broadest type, 
and he had done this by winning first Mirabelle, 
and then the rest of the League, to his theory 
that organization must come before attack. 
Needless to say, he had found many impedi- 
ments in the way of organization; Mirabelle 
had often betrayed impatience, but Mr. Mix had 
been able, so far, to hold her in check. He had 
realized very clearly, however, that Mirabelle 
wasn’t to be put off indefinitely; and he had 
been glad that he had a readymade ruse which 
he could employ as a blinder whenever she 
began to fidget. This ruse was his amend- 
ment ; and although he could no longer see any 
value in it for the purposes of his private feud, 
yet he was passing it for two reasons; Mira- 
belle was one, and the public was the other. 
Even a reformer must occasionally justify his 


ROPE 


243 


title; and besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing 
which .could injure the majesty of his reputa- 
tion. 

On this, then, Mr. Mix had laboured with un- 
ceasing diligence, and he had spent Mirabelle ’s 
money so craftily that thirty five hundred 
dollars had done the work of five thousand (and 
the balance had gone into his own pocket, and 
thence into a disastrous speculation in cotton), 
but as the year came into June, he told himself 
cheerfully that amendment or no amendment, 
he was justified in buying Mirabelle a wedding- 
ring. And when a belated epidemic of influ- 
enza rode into town, on the wings of an un- 
timely spell of weather, and the Health Depart- 
ment closed all theatres for five days, Mr. Mix 
told himself, further, that the end of his career 
as a reformer was in sight, and that the begin- 
ning of his career of statecraft was just over 
the hill. Once the minister had said “Amen,” 
and once his bride had made him her treasurer, 
and helped him into the Mayor ’s chair, the Re- 
form League was at liberty to go to the devil. 

Mirabelle had persisted in keeping the 
wedding- journey a surprise from him. She 


244 


EOPE 


had hinted at a trip which would dazzle him, 
and also at a wedding gift which would stun 
him by its magnificence; Mr. Mix had visions 
on the one hand, of Narragansett, Alaska or the 
Canadian Rockies, and on the other hand, of a 
double fistful of government bonds. Mr. Mix 
didn’t dare to tease her about the gift, but he 
did dare to tease her about the journey, and 
eventually she relented. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Mirabelle, archly. 
“We’re going to the convention.” 

Mr. Mix looked blank. “Convention?” 

She nodded proudly. “The national con- 
vention of reform clubs, in Chicago. Aren’t 
you surprised?” 

Mr. Mix swallowed, and made himself smile, 
but it was a hazardous undertaking. “Sur- 
prised? I — I’m — I’m knocked endways!” 

“You see,” she said, “we’ll be married on 
the fourth and be in Chicago on the sixth and be 
home again on the fourteenth and the Council 
won’t vote on the amendment until the six- 
teenth. Could anything have been nicer? 
Now, Theodore, you hadn't guessed it, had 
you?” 


ROPE 


245 

“Guessed it?” he stammered. “I should 
say not. I don’t see how you ever thought of 
it. It ’s — why, I ’m paralyzed ! ’ 9 

“You could be a little more enthusiastic with- 
out hurting yourself any,” she said sus- 
piciously. 

“I was thinking. I used to fancy I was 
pretty good at making plans myself, but this 
beats me. The way those dates all dovetail like 
the tiles on a roof. I never heard of anything 
like it. Only — well, if you will be so quick at 
reading my mind, I was wondering if we ought 
to leave town before the Council meets.”' 

“That’s mighty unselfish of you, Theodore, 
but you said only a couple of days ago you’d 
done all you could. And the Exhibitors ’ll still 
be working — ” 

“I don’t believe they’ll work any too hard. 
It’s taken too long to get under way. If the 
amendment passes, you see they’ll only have 
the advantage of six weeks of fair competition. 
I mean, Henry ’d lose only six weeks of his un- 
fair competition. And then we’ve got to see 
about getting new quarters for the League, 
when our Masonic Hall lease runs out, and — ” 


246 


EOPE 


“But our advertising ’ll be running just the 
same, and the League’ll still have its public 
meetings, and all. And everywhere I go I hear 
the same thing; the people really want this 
passed. And anybody can find us a new hall. 
I’ll appoint somebody. No, you’re just as un- 
selfish as you can be, but we ’ll be back in time. 
Truly, Theodore, didn’t you guess?” 

Much of the jauntiness had gone out of Mr. 
Mix, but he consoled himself with the certainty 
that in another two months, he would be in a 
position to become masterful. The week in 
Chicago would bore him excessively, but after 
all, it was only a small part of a lifetime. He 
reflected that to any prisoner, the last few days 
before release, and freedom, are probably the 
hardest. 

“How could I, my dear?” 

“No, you must have thought I’d want you 
to traipse off on some perfectly aimless, non- 
sensical trip like a pair of sentimental idiots.” 

“Oh, you know me better than that,” he mur- 
mured. 

“Yes, but I didn’t know how well you knew 


ROPE 247 

me. Sometimes I’ve been afraid yon think I’m 
too — gushing.” 

“Oh, Mirabelle!” 

“Just because I chatter along to you as any 
innocent young girl might — ” 

She continued to chatter for some minutes, 
but Mr. Mix was absent-minded. He had 
chewed the cud of his own virtue for too long a 
time, and it had given him a sour stomach. He 
was thinking that if her gift to him were in 
money (and from her hints he rather ex- 
pected it) he might even manage to find, in 
Chicago, a type of unascetic diversion which 
would remove the taste of the convention from 
his spirit. But it was better to be safe than 
sorry, and therefore Mr. Mix decided to make 
a flying trip to New York, for his bachelor cele- 
bration. 

To Mirabelle he said that he was going to 
confer with his friend, the head of the Watch- 
and-Ward Society. Mirabelle promptly volun- 
teered to go along too, but Mr. Mix told her, as 
delicately as he could, that it wouldn’t look 
proper, and Mirabelle, who worshipped pro- 


248 ROPE 

priety as all gods in one, withdrew the sug- 
gestion. 

“But before you go,” she said, “You’ve got 
to do something about the state-wide campaign. 
You’ve got to write the literature, anyway.” 

Mr. Mix felt that he was protected by the 
calendar, and promised. 


Before he went to New York, he wrote three 
pamphlets which were marvels of circumlocu- 
tion, as far as reform was concerned, and 
masterpieces of political writing, as far as his 
own interests were concerned. He had 
borrowed freely, and without credit, from the 
speeches of every orator from Everett to 
Choate, and when he delivered the manuscripts 
to Mirabelle, and went off on his solitary 
junket, he was convinced that he had helped 
his own personal cause, and satisfied the 
League, without risking the smallest part of his 
reputation. 

On his return, he stopped first at the Citizens 
Club, and when he came into the great living- 


ROPE 


249 


room lie was aware that several members 
looked up at him and smiled. Over in a 
corner, Henry Devereux and Judge Barklay 
had been conversing in undertones; but they, 
too, had glanced up, and their smiles were 
among the broadest. 

Mr. Mix had an uncomfortable intuition that 
something had blown. Could he have been 
spotted, in New York, by any one from home? 

‘ 4 What’s the joke?” he inquired of the 
nearest member. 

“Got a new name for you — Pitchfork Mix.” 
Mr. Mix spread a thin smile over his lips. 
“Supposed to be funny, is it?” 

“•Some folks think so.” 

“ Where ’d it originate? Let me in on the 
joke.” 

“Where would it originate? You’re some 
strenuous author — aren’t you? Didn’t know 
you had that much acid in your system. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ Author ? Author ? ’ ’ 

From the table at his side, the man picked up 
three pamphlets. One was entitled The Model 
Statute, the second was Local Problems, and 
the third was Reform and Regeneration. To 


250 


ROPE 


each of the three, Mr. Mix’s name was signed. 
He took them np, and scrutinized them closely. 

‘ 6 Why, what ’s so remarkable about these ? ’ ’ 

4 ‘Well, that one on Local Problems isn’t so 
bad, but you know, Mix, when you come out in 
print and tell us that sooner or later you’re 
going to stop the manufacture and sale of play- 
ing-cards, and — ” 

“What?” 

“And stop all public dancing, and — ” 

Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. “Who ever 
said that?” 

“And hand us out sumptuary laws — regulate 
the length of women’s skirts and — ” 

Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply. 
“Where’s that? Where is it? Show it to me! 
Show it to me ! ” 

Obligingly, the member showed him; and as 
Mr. Mix stared at the pages, one by one, the 
veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle 
had edited his manuscript, — thank Heaven she 
hadn’t tampered with the Mix amendment of 
the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so 
carefully phrased to checkmate Henry, without 
at the same time seeming to do more than pro- 


ROPE 


251 


vide conservative Sunday regulation, — but in 
the other articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a 
wealth of her own precious thoughts, clad in her 
own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two 
consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the 
worst wasn’t yet to come — it had arrived. 

The other man was amusedly calm. i ‘ Well, 
you ’re not going to deny you wrote it, are you ? 
Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don’t blame 
you for getting it off your chest, if you really 
mean it — a man might as well come out in the 
open — but I’m afraid too many people’ll think 
it just funny.” 

Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly 
attempt to register nonchalant poise. 4 4 What 
do you hear about it f ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do you honestly 
mean all that blood-and-thunder?” 

Mr. Mix smiled again, and hoped that his ex- 
pression was taken to be non-committal. To 
save his life, he couldn’t have helped looking 
towards the corner where Henry and Judge 
Barklay sat, and his fury and chagrin were 
multiplied when he saw that they were still af- 
fected by humour. 


252 


ROPE 


He went out, with vast dignity--eveii the 
doorman had a twinkle in his eye — and made 
for Masonic Hall. Mirabelle was there, in the 
committee room, and at sight of him, she had a 
temporary fit of maidenly diffidence. He 
wanted to slap her; but he didn’t even dare to 
use a tone of voice which was more than disap- 
proving. 

“ Those pamphlets — ” he began, censori- 
ously. 

“Oh, yes, Theodore, I took the liberty of 
making a few slight changes.” 

‘ ‘ Slight changes ! Sleight of hand changes ! ’ 9 

Mirabelle drew herself up. “Ho you mean 
to say you criticise what I did? 1 couldn’t see 
the sense of being milk-and-watery, even if you 
could. All I put in was what you’ve said to 
me a hundred times over. We’ve wasted too 
much time already. I thought we’d better 
show our true colours.” 

Mr. Mix stood and gaped at her. Under- 
ground politician that he was, he knew that 
Mirabelle had utterly destroyed the half of his 
ambition. She had made him a laughing-stock, 
a buffoon, a political joke. To think that his 


ROPE 


253 


name was connected with a crusade against 
short-skirts and dancing — Ugh! Not even the 
average run of church-goers would swallow it 
“ Mayor !” he thought bitterly. “ President of 
Council! I couldn’t get elected second deputy 
assistant dog-catcher ! ’ ’ 

Aloud, he said slowly: “Pm afraid it was 
premature, that’s all.” 

“Oh, no, it wasn’t! You’ve no idea how 
people are talking about it.” 

“Oh, yes, I have,” said Mr. Mix, but he 
hadn’t the temerity to put a sarcastic stress on 
it. He was wondering whether, if he issued a 
statement to assure the public that what was 
in those pamphlets was pure idealism, and not 
to be taken as his outline of any immediate 
campaign, he could remove at least the outer 
layer of the bad impression, and save his 
amendment from the wreck. He had thought, 
earlier, that he wouldn’t need that amendment 
as a personal weapon against Henry, but the 
value of it had appreciated by the possibility of 
losing it. As to the state-wide law, Mr. Mix 
was totally unconcerned. “Oh, yes, I have,” 
he said. 


254 


ROPE 


“ Don’t get too conceited, though, Theodore. 
The best part of it was mine.” 

Mr. Mix’s eagle eye saw a loophole. “You 
don’t think I’m going to take praise for what 
belongs to you do you I ” he demanded. 

“Why—” 

“No, sir!” said Mr. Mix. “Not exactly. 
I’m going to tell the truth about it at our next 
meeting, and I’m going to send a statement to 
the Herald.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” 

“It matters to me. Maybe I’m too finicky, 
but that ’s the kind of man I am. ’ ’ 

“You’re too generous,” she murmured. 

Mr. Mix wiped away a stray bead of perspir- 
ation, and breathed more freely. With Mira- 
belle’s money to back him, and the stigma of 
those two pamphlets removed, perhaps he had 
a fighting chance for the mayoralty yet. 


It was a house-wedding, with very few guests, 
no decorations, and perfectly digestible re- 
freshments. When the last of the party had 


EOPE 


255 


gone down the steps, Mirabelle, in a travelling- 
suit which was new in comparison with the rest 
of her wardrobe, approached the bridegroom. 

‘ ‘Theodore, I want you to have your gift be- 
fore we start. I don’t want you to feel too de- 
pendent on me. Maybe after next month I’ll 
make some kind of a settlement on you, but 
that’s neither here nor there. So . . . take it, 
and I hope it ’s what you wanted. ’ ’ 

He took it, and his fingers trembled. A 
check? And for what generous amount? 
“Well — aren’t you going to thank me?” 

Mr. Mix tried to speak, but the lump in his 
throat prevented him. She had given him what 
was the legal equivalent of five thousand 
dollars, but it wasn’t in the form of a check. 
It was his own demand note, payable to John 
Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mira- 
belle. The word “ Cancelled” was written, in 
Mirabelle ’s angular hand, across the face of it. 


CHAPTER XIV 


S Henry and his wife went down the steps, 



fl they exchanged glances and smiled 
faintly. * ‘ First time I’ve been in that house 
for seven months,” said Henry, half to himself. 
“It’s a bully old shack, too. I lived in it ever 
since I was six.” 

“Still, we’re pretty comfortable right where 
we are, dear.” 

Henry lagged a little. “That does hurt my 
feelings. Of course, I’m so busy I could live 
in a dog-kennel and hardly notice it, but when 
you have to camp day in and day out in that 
measly little joint, and smell everybody else’s 
corned beef and cabbage, and dig like a general- 
housework girl and cook, and manicure the 
stove, and peel the potatoes and dust off the 
what-not and so on — not that you haven ’t made 
it a mighty pretty place, because you have — 
without one day’s vacation since last 
August — ’ ’ 


256 


ROPE 257 

“But I’ve told yon so often, dear, Pm glad 
to do it if it helps you.” 

“It helped a lot. If you hadn’t done it in 
the first place, I wouldn ’t have had the cash on 
hand to tie up the rest of the picture houses. 
But that time’s gone by. I don’t see why in 
thunder you won’t hire some servants. And at 
least you could pike up into the country for a 
week. Why don’t you?” 

She hesitated, for temptation was strong, and 
she was really very tired. “Maybe it’s just 
because I want to play the game out, too. It’s 
only two months more.” 

“And after that,” he said firmly, “we’re 
going to move. I’ll have enough to buy a 
young bungle-house up on the hill, even if I 
don’t get anything from Archer. And then 
I’m going to make up to you for this year — see 
if I don’t.” 

“Would you sell the Orpheum?” 

“Sell it!” he echoed. “I’d sell it so quick 
you’d think it was a fake oil-well! I could, 
too. Bob Standish sends me a proposition 
from somebody about once a week.” 


258 


ROPE 


‘ ‘ Don ’t you believe there ’s any chance of our 
catching up, then?” 

“ Looks pretty black,” he admitted. 
“They’ve got us eight down and nine to go, but 
if this amendment holds off weVe still got 
eight weeks left to think up some wild scheme.” 

She squeezed his arm. “Pm not afraid of 
the future, no matter what happens. We can 
take care of ourselves.” 

“Sure we can,” he said, easily. “Maybe I 
could get a job keeping the books for the 
League! . . . Seriously, though, I’ve had two 
or three different propositions put up to me 
over at the Club . . . but Lord! how I hate 
to be licked! Well — let’s train our gigantic 
intellects on the job, and finish out the heat, 
anyway . 9 9 

She went back to her hated housekeeping, and 
Henry went back to his hated theatre, and for 
another week they laboured and pinched and 
saved, each in a specific purpose, and each in 
desperate support of the other’s loyalty and 
sacrifice. 

He brought her, then, the morning edition of 
the Herald , and pointed out a telegraphic item 


ROPE 


259 


on the first page. ‘ ‘ They must think it ’s a sure 
thing/ ’ he said, “and the devil of it is that J 
guess they’re pretty nearly right.” 

Anna glanced at the headlines, and gasped. 
“Mix elected second vice-president of the 
national organization — and pledges twenty-five 
thousand dollars to the national campaign 
fund! Oh! ... I wish I could say what I 
think ! ’ ’ 

“If a hearty oath would relieve you, don’t 
mind me,” said Henry. His chin was squarer 
than usual, and his eyes were harder. “You 
can see what happened, can ’t you ? Aunt Mira- 
belle railroaded him through — and the pompous 
old fool looks the part — and she let him promise 
money she expects to get in August. And I’ll 
bet it hurt him just as much to promise it as it 
does me to have him!” 

She threw the paper to the floor. “Henry, 
can’t we do something? We’re only a few 
hundred dollars short! Can’t we make up 
just that little bit?” 

“It’s a thousand, now,” he said. “A 
thousand, and we’re falling further behind 
every time the clock ticks.” He retrieved the 


260 


KOPE 


Herald , and abstractedly smoothed out the 
pages. ‘ 4 That was a great spread-eagle speech 
of Mix ’s* wasn’t it! Talking about his model 
ordinance, and what he’s going to do next 
year! . . . Nothing I’d love better than to give 
that fellow a dose of his own tonic. But that’s 
the deuce of it — I can’t think how to put it 
over. . . . Even if I’m licked, I wouldn’t feel 
so badly if I just had the personal satisfaction 
of making him look like a sick cat. Just once.” 

“Yes,” she said, sorrowfully. “Dad’s 
prophecy didn’t seem to work out, did it!” 
“What prophecy was that!” 

“Don’t you remember! He said if Mr. Mix 
only had enough rope — ” 

“Oh, yes. Only Mix declined the invitation. 
He’s handled himself pretty well; you’ve got 
to grant that. There’s a lot of people around 
here that honestly think he’s a first-class 
citizen. Sometimes I’m darned if I don’t think 
they will elect him something. And then God 
save the Commonwealth! But if they ever 
realized how far that League ’ll go if it ever gets 
under way, and what a bunch of hocum Mix’s 


ROPE 


261 


part of it is — ” He stopped abruptly, and 
froze in his place; and then, to Anna’s amaze- 
ment, he turned to her with a whoop which 
could have carried half-way to the Orpheum. 

“Henry! What on earth is it?” 

Henry snatched up his hat and made for the 
door. “More rope!” he said, exultantly, over 
his shoulder. “ Lots more rope — I’ll tell you 
tonight ! ’ ’ 


He arrived at the City Hall before the record 
room was open, and he fretted and stamped in 
the corridor until a youthful clerk with spats, 
pimples, and an imitation diamond scarf-pin 
condescended to listen to his wants. In twenty 
minutes he was away again, and he was lucky 
enough to catch Judge Barklay before the 
bailiff had opened court. 

“Hello, Henry,” said the Judge. “Did you 
want to see me about anything?” 

“Rather!” said Henry, who was slightly out 
of breath. “It’s about a comma.” 


262 


EOPE 


“A what?” 

“A comma. Where’s your copy of the 
ordinances?” 

i 1 On my desk. Why ? ’ ’ 

Henry ran through the volume to the proper 
place, inserted his thumb as a marker, and held 
the book in reserve. “ Judge, do you suppose 
the voters want any of these fool blue-laws 
passed?” 

“No.” 

“Well, who does, then, outside of the 
League?” 

“Nobody. All we want is a decent city.” 

‘It’s simply that the League’s got the Coun- 
cil more or less buffaloed, isn’t it?” 

“That’s what I’ve heard, Henry.” 

“And the first thing we know, the League’ll 
have put in such a big wedge that it’ll be too 
late to get it out. If this amendment gets over, 
Mix’ll have a show in the fall, and then the 
League’ll run wild. Just as they said in those 
pamphlets that Mix published, and then 
squirmed out of. Isn’t that so?” 

“Very likely. Very likely.” 

“And yet everybody’s afraid to stand up 


ROPE 


263 


against it, for fear they’ll be called names ?” 

“It looks so, Henry.” 

“But if the people once started a back fire — ” 

The Judge shook his head. “Mobs don’t 
start without a leader.” 

“I know, but if they ever realized what a 
ghastly farce it would be — not even using any 
of the League’s new notions, but taking what 
we’ve got on the books right now — ” He 
opened the volume of ordinances, and read 
slowly: “ ‘ Whosoever shall fail in the strict 
observance of the Lord’s Day by any unseenly 
act, speech or carriage ; or whosoever shall en- 
gage in any manner of diversion — ’ ” Here 
he paused impressively. “ ‘ — or profane oc- 
cupation — ’ ” He slung the volume on the 
desk, and faced the Judge. “Don’t you get 
it?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t — quite.” 

“Why,” said Henry, with a beatific grin. 
“Why, there’ s a comma nfter that word ‘diver- 
sion.’ I’ve just come from the City Hall. I’ve 
seen the original copy. There is a comma. 
‘ Any manner of diversion’ — that’s one thing: 
‘or any manner of profane occupation for 


264 


EOPE 


profit — ’ that’s something else again, and dif- 
ferent entirely. And the Eeform League has 
been shrieking to have that ordinance enforced 
— to say nothing of the amendment. Well, why 
not enforce it once. ‘Any manner of diver- 
sion V ” He began to laugh, helplessly. “Oh, 
come on, Judge — take the pins out and let your 
imagination down. Any manner of — ” 

The Judge was whistling softly. “By 
George, Henry — ” 

“Can’t you see it working? I’m not sure 
anybody could even take a nap! And — ” 

The Judge stepped past him. “That’s all 
right, Henry. Stay where you are. I’m just 
going to telephone Eowland. . . . Hello: May- 
or’s office, please — ” He motioned to his 
son-in-law. “Make yourself comfortable — I 
shouldn’t wonder a bit if these blue-laws 
weren’t going to get just a little bit — bleached. ” 


On his delirious way to the Orpheum, he 
stopped in to see Bob Standish, not to share the 
joke with him, for Judge Barklay had laid great 


ROPE 265 

stress on the closest secrecy, but in answer to 
a recent message asking him to call. 

“What’s the excitement, Bob?” 

His friend regarded him with the innocent 
stare which had made his fortune. “ Remem- 
ber I spoke to you some time ago about renting 
that space over the Orpheum?” 

“The nursery? Yes.” 

“Well, it’s come up again. Different party, 
this time. Of course he hasn’t seen it yet, but 
it’s a chap who wants about that much space — 
might want to enlarge it a little, but we’d ar- 
range that; he’d do it at his own expense — and 
he’d pay fifteen hundred a year.” 

Henry deliberated. “It’s so near the fin- 
ish. ... I don’t much care one way or the 
other. Who ’s the party ? ’ ’ 

“Bird named McClellan.” 

“I don’t know him; do I?” 

“I don’t know why you should; never met 
him before, myself. Well, do you want to 
trade ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t much -care what I do.” 

Standish surveyed him closely. “You’re 
very peppy this morning, seems to me.” 


266 


ROPE 


“I’ve got an excuse to be.” 

‘ ‘ For publication ! ’ ’ 

“Not yet. You’ll see it soon enough.” 

Standish ’s eyes dropped back to his desk. 
“Well, let’s get this lease question off our 
chests. If you’ll let me handle it for you, I’ll 
guarantee you’ll be satisfied.” 

“Would you do it if you were in my shoes!” 

“Absolutely — provided you were in mine.” 

Henry laughed. “Well, Mr. Bones, what is 
the answer!” 

“Why — this may do you some good. That is, 
if you let me manage it for you. But suppose 
it’s immaterial. Suppose you run out your 
string, and win or lose, you know what’s on the 
docket for you, don’t you! If you want it!” 

“I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve had 
one or two things' put up to me.” 

‘ 1 Forget ’em. ’ ’ Standish pointed at the wall. 
“Nice new mahogany flat-topped desk right 
there.” 

Henry’s mouth relaxed. “Why — Bob." 

As Standish gazed at him, no observer would 
have said that this immature-looking boy was 
rated in the highest group of local business- 


ROPE 


267 


men. To a stranger, the offer might have 
seemed insignificant, even humourously insig- 
nificant; but to Henry it was stupendous, and 
for two widely varying reasons. 

“Just to think over,” said Standish. “In 
case.” 

Henry’s fists were doubled. “It isn’t so 
much the . . . the commercial side of it, Bob, 
but when I know you’ve always had me down 
for such an incompetent sort of — ” 

“That was before the war. To tell the truth, 
old rubbish, last August I couldn’t have seen it 
with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a 
great scout, of course — good pal — all that — but 
business; that’s different. A friend’s one 
thing; but a partner’s a lot of ’em.” 

Henry was staring fixedly at him. “I 
wouldn’t have any money to speak of — ” 

“Then don’t speak of it. 7 ’ll name the price. 
The price is your year’s profit on the Or- 
pheum.” 

There was a little silence. “When did you 
get this hunch, Bob?” 

“Oh, about last February.” 

“But it was about then that I came in here 


268 


ROPE 


one day, and — and you said you— you said one 
pal couldn’t boss another. You said — ” 

“Oh! . . . But as I recall it, you were talk- 
ing about a job.” 

“Yes, and you said you wouldn’t give me 
one ! And ever since then I’ve been — ’ ’ 
“Idiot!” said Standish. “Is that what’s 
been gnawing at his tender heart! Why, you 
astigmatic fool — why. . . . Stop right there! 
Certainly I wouldn’t have you for an employe, 
but as a partner — that’s different. If you 
apologize, I’ll slay you. Shake hands and 
wipe it off your brain. . . Now let’s get back 
to business. We’ve got to have quick action.” 


CHAPTER XV 


S the train slowed for the station, and a 



il L score of other passengers began to as- 
semble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix 
sat calm and undisturbed, although inwardly 
he was still raging at Mirabelle for making a 
spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago 
that she had prodded him into activity, ignored 
his plea of greater experience in ways of travel, 
and compelled him to get the suit-cases out to 
the platform (she didn’t trust the porter), to 
help her on with her cape, and to be in instant 
readiness for departure. For half an hour she 
had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, 
an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel 
in the other, and her air was a public procla- 
mation that no railroad, soulless corporation 
though it might be, was going to carry her one 
inch beyond her destination. 

By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed 
his eyes from Mirabelle ’s convention badge. It 


269 


270 


ROPE 


was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two 
sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of 
blue silk ribbon, with white lettering, and Mira- 
belle continued to wear it for two reasons : she 
was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his ini- 
tial attempt to be masterful, and told her twen- 
ty-four hours ago that it looked as though she 
belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. 
Since then, she had reproached him afresh 
whenever she caught him looking at it. And 
inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by any- 
one who cast the briefest glance in her general 
direction, he had been in hot water from Chi- 
cago to the present moment. He couldn’t even 
escape to the smoking room. 

When a man is telling himself that a woman 
has made a fool of him in public, and that every 
one in the neighbourhood is amused to watch 
him, he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a 
conversation with the woman. But Mr. Mix 
saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and 
glowering at a drummer acro-ss the aisle, he 
beat her to it. 

‘ ‘ Seems to me the League had an almighty 
gall to wire you for that three thousand dol- 


ROPE 


271 


lars, Mirabelle. If it had been my money, I’d 
have hung on to it until I knew what they 
wanted it for.” 

She straightened her lips. “Well, it wasn’t, 
was it? — So I didn’t, did I? ... If I can’t 
have faith in my own associates, who can I 
have it in? And it isn’t a gift; it’s a loan. 
Treasurer said he needed it right off, and there 
wasn’t anybody else to get it from in a hurry.” 
She caught his eyes wandering towards her 
gorgeous insignia, and her own eyes snapped 
back at him. “And I hope at least I’m to have 
the privilege of doing what I choose with my 
own money. Don’t forget that women are 
people , now, just as much as men are. After 
the first of August, maybe I’ll — ” 

* ‘ Mirabelle. Sh-h ! ’ ’ 

“ No, I won ’t either, ’ ’ she retorted. < ‘ I don ’t 
care to shush. After the first of August, may- 
be you’ll have your share, and I won’t presume 
to interfere with you . So don’t you interfere 
with me. If the League had to have money, it 
was for some proper purpose. And it wasn’t 
a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn’t 
trust—” 


272 


EOPE 


“Oh, give it a drink !” said Mr. Mix, under 
his breath; and while he maintained an atth 
tude of courteous attention, he barricaded his 
ears as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of 
his consciousness. 

Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins 
from the seat of war; they had merely con- 
firmed his previous knowledge that Henry was 
beaten, thoroughly and irretrievably. A few 
more weeks, and Mirabelle would be rich. Half 
a million? That was the minimum. Three 
quarters? That was more likely. A million 
dollars? It wasn’t in the least improbable. 
And Mirabelle had told him more than once, and 
in plain English, that she planned to divide 
with him — not equally, but equitably. She had 
said that she would give him a third of her 
own inheritance. Hm ... a hundred and 
fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what 
couldn’t he do with such a benefice? Of course, 
he would have to profess some slight interest in 
the League for awhile, but gradually he could 
slide out of it— and he hoped that he could engi- 
neer Mirabelle out of it. Mirabelle made her- 
self too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle 


EOPE 


273 


stuck to her colours, Mr. Mix needn’t hesitate 
to drift away — that is, after he had received his 
settlement. Late in August, he would make a 
trip to New York on business — reform business 
— and in the glare of the flaming-arcs, he would 
compensate himself for his years of penance. 
Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminis- 
cently) in Chicago he had once managed to 
hoodwink her; and what man has done, man 
can do. 

“It’s nothing to laugh at, Theodore!” 

He came to himself with a start. “I wasn’t 
laughing. ” 

“Did you hear what I said?” 

“Yes, dear. Certainly.” 

“Very well. We’ll go out, then.” 

“Out where?” 

“Out to the vestibule, just as I said.” 

“But Mirabelle! We’re more than a mile 
from the station!” 

“We’re going out to the vestibule, Theodore. 
I don’t propose to get left.” 

A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing 
that the smiles and sympathy of his fellow-pas- 
sengers were cheap at the price, but when he 


274 


ROPE 


rose and escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he 
was telling himself that the old-fashioned prin- 
ciple w T as best — the wife’s property ought to 
pass under the absolute control of the husband. 
He was strengthened in this conviction by the 
fact that two fashionable young men in the cor- 
ner were snickering at him. 

“Home again,” said Mirabelle, with a sigh of 
relief. “Home again, and time to get to work. 
And I’m just itching for it.” 

Mr. Mix said nothing : he was wondering how 
soon he could get to his private cache, and 
whether he had better put in a supply of young 
onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. 
He hadn’t yet discovered whether Mirabelle 
had a particularly keen scent : but he would take 
no chances. 

“Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!” 

“I may be married,” said Mr. Mix, defen- 
sively. “But I’m dashed if I’m blind. . . . Im- 
modest little hussies. “We’ll have to tackle 
that question next, Mirabelle.” 

The train eased to a standstill : he helped her 
down to the platform. The big car was wait- 
ing for them : and as the door slammed, Mr. Mix 


KOPE 


275 


sat back luxuriously, and beamed at the chauf- 
feur. Yes, virtue had its compensations; and 
as soon as he had money to his own credit, he 
would figuratively take Mirabelle by the scruff 
of the neck, and he would tell her just exactly 
how to behave, and he would see that she did 
it. But for the present — soft diplomacy. 

Mirabelle clamped his arm. “Why, what’s 
that policeman stopping us for, right in the 
middle of a block!” 

“Search me. . . He opened the door, and 
he leaned out, imperially. “What’s wrong, of- 
ficer! We weren’t going over twelve or thir- 
teen — ” 

The policeman, who had brought out a thick 
book of blank summonses, and an indelible pen- 
cil, motioned him to desist. “What name!” 

Mr. Mix swelled, pompously. “But, officer, 
I—” 

“Cut it out. Name!’’’ 

“Theodore Mix. But — ” 

“Address!” 

Mr. Mix gave it, but before he could add a 
postscript, Mirabelle was on active duty. “Of- 
ficer, we’ve got a perfect right to know what all 


276 


ROPE 


this fol-de-rol is about. I'm the president of the 
Ethical Reform League. * ’* She flirted her badge 
at him. “I’m Mrs. Theodore Mix — used to be 
Miss Starkweather. My husband is a personal 
friend of Mayor Rowland, and the Chief of 
Police. I demand to to know the reason for 
this insult!” 

The policeman tore off a page at the perfora- 
tion, and handed it to Mr. Mix. “Judge Bark- 
lay’s Court, Tuesday, 10 A. M. . . . Why, 
you’re violatin’ City Ordinance 147.” 

Mirabelle turned red. “Now you see here, 
young man, I know that ordinance backwards 
and forwards ! I — - ’ ’ ’ 

“Try it sideways,” said the unabashed po- 
liceman. “Ordinance says nobody can’t en- 
gage in no diversion on the Lord’s Day. That’s 
today, and this here limousine’s a diversion, 
ain’t it?” 

Mr. Mix cried out in anguish, as her grip 
tightened. “Ouch! It’s a damned outrage! 
Leggo my arm.” 

“No, it isn’t! Oh, Theodore, don’t you see 
what it means ■ — ” 


ROPE 277 

“Leggo, Mirabelle! It’s a damned out- 
rage !” 

“No, it isn’t either! Theodore, don’t you 
see ? The Mayor’s weakened — they probably 
read your speech at Chicago — they aren’t wait- 
ing for the amendment ! They’re enforcing the 
ordinance — better than we ever dreamed of! 
And that means that you’re going to the City 
Hall next autumn ! ’ ’ She leaned out and bowed 
to the gaping officer. “We beg your pardon. 
You did perfectly right. Thank you for doing 
your duty. Can we go on, now ? ’ ’ 

The man scratched his head, perplexedly. 

“What are you tryin’ to do — kid me? Sure; 
go ahead. Show that summons to anybody else 
that stops you,” 

In the two miles to the hill, they were stopped 
seven times, and when they arrived at the 
house, Mirabelle was almost hysterical with 
triumph. Without delaying to remove her 
hat, she sent a telegram to the national presi- 
dent, and she also telephoned to a few of her 
League cronies, to bid them to a supper in cele- 
bration. Mr. Mix made three separate essays 


278 


ROPE 


to escape, but after the third and last trial was 
made to appear in its proper light as a subter- 
fuge, he lapsed into heavy infestivity; and he 
spent the evening drinking weak lemonade, and 
trying to pretend that it belonged to the Col- 
lins family. And while his wife (still wearing 
her insignia) and his guests were talking in a 
steady stream, Mr. Mix was telling himself that 
if Ordinance 147 was going to prevent so inno- 
cent an occupation as riding in a car on Sun- 
day, he was very much afraid that life in this 
community was going to be too rich for his 
blood. That is, unless he were elected to be 
chief of the community. And in this case, he 
would see that he wasn’t personally inconven- 
ienced. 


At half past seven in the morning, Mirabelle 
was already at the breakfast table, and semi- 
audibly rating Mr. Mix for his slothfulness, 
when he came in with an odd knitting of his fore- 
head and an unsteady compression of his mouth. 
To add to the effect, he placed his feet with stud- 


ROPE 


279 


ied clumsiness, and as he gave the Herald into 
Mirabelle ’s hands, he uttered a sound which 
annoyed her. 

“For the cat’s sake, Theodore, what are you 
groaning about f ’ 9 

“Groan yourself,” said Mr. Mix, and put a 
trembling finger on the headline. As he re- 
moved the finger, it automatically ceased to 
tremble. Mr. Mix didn’t care two cents for 
what was in the Herald, but he knew that 
to Mirabelle it would be a tragedy, and that he 
was cast for the part of chief mourner. 

“Well, what’s that to groan about? I’d call 
it a smashing victory — just as I did last night. 
And our being caught only shows — ” 

“Rave on,” said Mr. Mix lugubriously, and 
stood with his hands in his pockets, jingling his 
keys. 

“Certainly! It shows they meant business. 
It shows we did. We’ll take our own medicine. 
And the amendment — ” She broke off 
sharply; her eyes had strayed back to the 
smaller type. “Good grief!” said Mirabelle, 
faintly, and there was silence. 

Mr. Mix came to look over her shoulder. 


280 


HOPE 


LEADING REFORMERS ARRESTED 

FOR VIOLATING OWN PET LAW 
Police Issue Over 2800 Summcfmes to Golfers , Pick- 
nickers, Canoeists, Cyclists, Hikers and Motorists 
including Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Mix 

MAYOR PUTS OVER UNIQUE REFERENDUM 
TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE REALLY WANT 

Special Meeting of Council Called This Morning 
Entire City Roused to Fight Blue-Law-Campaign: 
Mix Amendment Doomed : Ordinance 147 Sure to be 
Modified 


Mirabelle collected herself. “What are you 
standing around gawking like that for! Find 
out what time that meeting is. Telephone 
every member of the committee. They won’t 
have any meeting without us, not by a long, long 
row of apple-trees!” 

“Save your strength,” said Mr. Mix, with a 
spiritual yawn. 

“Save my strength! Well, what about sav- 
ing my five thousand dollars for — for mission- 
ary work ! ’ 9 


EOPE 


281 


“The missionary fund,” said Mr. Mix, 
“ seems to have fallen among cannibals. Save 
your energy, my dear. This isn't reform; it's 
elementary politics, and Rowland's used the 
steam-roller. As a matter of fact, we're 
stronger than we were before. If they'd passed 
my amendment, a lot of voters might have said 
it wouldn't do any good to elect me Mayor; 
when all my best work was done beforehand. 
Now I've got a real platform to fight on. And 
the League'll have a real fund, won't it? You 
put up forty or fifty thousand, and we'll stage 
a Waterloo.” 

“An*d you can stand there and — oh, you 
coward!” 

He shook his head, with new dignity. “No, 
you're simply lucky Rowland didn't think of 
it a year ago. If he had , and — ” Mr. Mix 
broke off the sentence, and turned pale. 

“What's the matter, Theodore?” 

Mr. Mix slumped down as though hit from be- 
hind. “Mirabelle — listen — ” His voice was 
strained, and hoarse. “I may have to have 
some money today — four or five thousand — ” 

“I haven't got it.” 


282 


EOPE 


He stared at her until she backed away in 
awe. “You — you haven’t got — four or five 
thousand — V 9 

Mirabelle began to whimper. “I’ve been so 
sure of — of August, you know — I’ve spent all 
Mr. Archer sent me. I — ” 

As he stepped forward, Mirabelle retreated. 
“You’ve got something of your own, though?” 
It wasn’t an ordinary question, it was an agon- 
ized appeal. 

“Only a separate trust fund John set up for 
me before he died — fifty thousand dollars — I 
just get the interest — sixty dollars a week. ’ ’ 

Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breath- 
ing was laboured. “Great — Jumping — Jehoso- 
phat!” He wet his lips, repeatedly. “Mira- 
belle — listen — if they modify that ^ordinance — 
so Sunday shows are legal again — those other 
fellows’ll want to buy back — their contracts — 
from Henry. There ’s only a few weeks — but if 
Henry only raised a thousand dollars — he’d be 
so close to his ten thousand — He reached 
for a glass of water and drank it, gulping. 
“Henry’ll see that — he’s got his eyes open 


ROPE 


283 


every minute. . . . We’ve got to cut inside of 
him. Prevent those fellows from buying their 
Sunday leases back. Get hold of the man that’s 
the boss of the Exhibitors’ Association. Tell 
him we ’ll buy a second option to lease the whole 
string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our 
getting a release from Henry. As> if the 
League wanted ’em or something. Offer a big 
enough rent so they’ll have to accept — so they’d 
get more out of us than if they opened up. 
Then they can’t buy back from Henry — and 
he ’s over a thousand short. I know he is. And 
if you don’t do it — ” His gesture was dra- 
matic. 

Mirabelle ’s expression, as she wiped her eyes, 
was a pot-pourri of sentiments. ‘ i Humph! 
Can’t say I like the idea much, kind- of too 
tricky. ’* 

Mr. Mix played his last card. ‘ ‘ Don't the 
ends justify the means? You and I’d be philan- 
thropists, and Henry — ” He watched her 
quiver. “And with a fund such as we’d have, 
we’d begin all over again, and next time we’d 
win, wouldn’t we?” 


284 


ROPE 


“Theodore. I’ve got fifty one hundred in the 
bank. It has to last Till August. If you took 
five thousand more — ” 

He snatched at the straw. “You bet I’ll take 
it. It’s for insurance . And you telephone to 
Masonic Hall and see what’s left of the three 
grand you wired ’em from — ” 

“The what?” 

“The money you sent from Chicago. Get 
what’s left. Soon as I find out, I’ll hustle down 
town and get busy.” 

Mirabelle wavered. “The Council’s going 
to—” 

Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throw- 
back to his cave-man ancestry. “To hell with 
the Council!” 

For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and 
then she saw his eyes. “A-all right,” she fal- 
tered. “I — I’ll telephone!” 

Inside of five minutes, she told him that of 
her loan, there was nothing left at all. The 
money had been wanted for the two-year rental 
of a new hall, at 300 Chestnut Street ; the owner 
had made a marked concession in price for ad- 
vance payment. 


ROPE 


285 


“ Never mind, then,” he rasped. “That’s 
cold turkey. .Give me a check for every nickel 
you’ve got. . . . And I’ll want the car all day. 
I want a cup of coffee. And you wait right 
here until I get word to you what to do next.” 

“Couldn’t I even — ” 

“You stay here ! Far’s I know; I’ll have you 
making the rounds of the hock-*shops to cash in 
your jewelry. But — ” He relaxed slightly. 
“But when it’s for reform, my dear — when it’s 
for civilization — the League — isn’t it worth any 
sacrifice ? ’ ’ 

A spark of the old fire burned in her eyes. 
“Humph! Good thing one of us has got some- 
thing to sacrifice, if anybody asked me. But 
here’s your coffee. . . . Don’t make such a 
horrid noise with it, Theodore.” 


At noon, he telephoned her two pieces of 
news. The Council, fairly swamped with hun- 
dreds of outraged voters, had promptly modi- 
fied the existing ordinance, and rejected — 
unanimously — the Mix amendment. And Mr. 


286 


ROPE 


Mix, who had spent three hours in conference, 
and in battle, had emerged victorious. 

i i Thank Heaven, we’re safe! . . . And it 
only costs thirty-nine hundred. (Five of this 
was Mr. Mix’s self-granted commission.) I’ve 
bought a second option on every last house in 
town. And I’ll need the car all afternoon. 
I’ve got to run all over everywhere and close 
these deals. . . . What are you going to do?” 

“Why,” she said with a rueful glance at her 
check-book. “I guess I’ll go down and see how 
soon I can get that loan back. I’m not used to 
—putting off tradesmen’s bills, Theodore. I 
wasn’t brought up to it.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


N OW after prolonged debate, and a trial of 
irresistible force (which was Henryks 
logic) against an immovable body (which was 
Anna’s loyalty), she had finally consented to 
run up into the country for a week’s respite 
from the hot weather. Before she left, how- 
ever, she w r as first sworn to* secrecy, and told 
of the discovery of the lurking ‘comma, and of 
the plan for a militant referendum; she was 
properly convulsed, but a little later, when her 
practical instincts had had a chance to assert 
themselves, she inquired of Henry where there 
was any benefit to the Orpheum. 

“Not a bit,’*’ he -assured her cheerfully. 

“Not even in the Council — ” 

“Dearest, it doesn’t -make the difference of 
the billionth part of a counterfeit Russian 
rouble.” 

She regarded him curiously. “Are you as 
cheerful as all that just because you’re getting 
287 


288 ROPE 

back at Mr. Mix? And maybe spoiling bis boom 
for Mayor ?” 

Henry said that he was all as cheerful as 
that; yea, more so. He was merely snagging 
the rope which had already been paid out ; and 
it was glory in his pocket, because so many 
people before him had found the rope twitched 
out of their hands. She thought that this indi- 
cation of a vengeful spirit was out of place in 
his character, but she forgave it, because at 
least it was founded on humour. And when 
he took her to the train, she forgave it on 
another score, because she realized that not 
since last autumn had she seen him so funda- 
mentally boyish and irresponsible. She was 
glad that so much of his spontaneity had come 
back to him, but at the same time she was 
puzzled, for it didn’t seem altogether like 
Henry, as she had analyzed him, to gloat so 
thoroughly over mere retaliation, humourous 
or not. 

On Monday, he met her at the station, and as 
soon as she saw him, she remarked again the 
extraordinary uplift of his mood. She had read 
the Herald, and taken deep enjoyment from 


ROPE 


289 


it; but Henry had a hundred unpublished inci- 
dents to tell her, — one of them concerned his 
own escape from possible complications by clos- 
ing the Orpheum, issuing passes good for the 
following week; and spending the day in the 
library of the Citizens Club — and in her amuse- 
ment, and also in her happiness to be back with 
him, she didn’t notice that Henry was driving 
her to the Orpheum instead of to their apart- 
ment. 

“Why, what are we stopping here for, dear?” 

Henry’s laugh had a pronounced overtone. 
“To meet Mr. Archer. I thought you’d like 
to be in on it.” 

“In on what?” She caught his arm. 
‘ ‘ Henry ! Has something happened ? Has it ? ” 
She stared at him, and as she recognized what 
might be hidden behind his expression of ex- 
quisite, unreserved joy, she was almost as 
frightened as if he had looked despairing in- 
stead of joyful. 

“It wasn’t settled until last week,” he said, 
still with that wide, speculative smile, like a 
baby’s. “It really wasn’t settled until Satur- 
day. And it won’t be positively settled until 


290 E 0 P E 

we’ve seen Archer. . . . And there he is wait- 
ing for us ! I couldn’t get him before — he was 
in the country for the week-end .’ 9 


With no clear recollection of how she got 
there, she was sitting in Henry’s tiny office, 
and Mr. Archer was sitting beside her, and 
Henry was standing at his desk, pawing over 
a heap of ledgers and cash-books. To Anna, 
there was something commanding in his atti- 
tude, something more of crest than she had ever 
seen in him, even during the early period of 
his intrepid youth. And yet she could see, too, 
that his hands were a trifle unsteady, and that 
his lips betrayed an immense excitement. 

“Mr. Archer,” he said. “There’s no use 
waiting until the first of the year. Either 
we’ve made good by this time, or we never will. 
Here’s the books. They’ll show a net profit, 
including Saturday’s deposit, of ten thousand 
five hundred.” 

Anna turned weak and faint, and she wanted 
to laugh and cry in the same breath, but she 


ROPE 


291 


gripped the arms of her chair, and clung fast 
to what was left of her poise. If Henry had 
a miracle to report, Anna must hear it. 

i ‘It’s a matter of interpretation, ’ ’ he went 
on, with his voice shaking for an instant. 
“And you’re the interpreter. It came up so 
suddenly last week that I couldn’t get hold of 
you. But I took a chance, anyway. . . . Does 
a lease count f” 

The lawyer looked very sober. “A lease f” 

“Yes. If I leased part of the theatre to 
somebody, would the income from that count ?” 

During the resultant silence, Anna distinctly 
heard her own heart beating. She looked at 
Mr. Archer, and saw that his brows were drawn 
down, and that his eyes were distant. Fear- 
fully, she hung on his reply. 

“That’s a delicate question, Henry. You 
were supposed to make your profit from the 
operation of the theatre.’ ’ 

Henry was tense. “I don’t mean if I leased 
the theatre . I mean if I leased some part of it 
— some part that wouldn’t interfere with the 
show.” 

Anna closed her eyes. Mr. Archer’s brows 


292 


EOPE 


had risen to normal. “Why, in that case, I 
should certainly say that the income would 
count, Henry. Let’s see the lease?” 

Anna wished that Henry would come over to 
her, and hold her in his arms while Mr. Archer, 
with maddening deliberation, glanced through 
the long typewritten document — but Henry had 
turned his back, and was gazing out of the 
window. 

“Peter McClellan? What’s he want so much 
space for?” 

Henry made no response. There was a long 
hiatus, broken only by the rustling of the pages. 

“Just a minute, Henry. Some of this is all 
right — and some isn’t. The space you mention 
is what you’re using now for the — er — nursery, 
I take it. And the privilege of the lessee to 
enlarge the upper story at his own expense is 
all right.” His brows had gone down again, 
and Anna shivered. “But even if you’ve got 
your whole rental in advance, you aren’t 
entitled to claim all of it belongs to this year’s 
income. As a matter of fact, you actually earn 
a twenty-fourth of that whole payment every 
month for twenty-four months.” 


E 0 P E 293 

Henry spoke over his shoulder. “You 
haven’t read far enough/ ’ 

“Oh!” Mr. Archer laughed, but his voice was 
no lighter. “Why, how on earth did you 
persuade anybody to execute such an agree- 
ment as that?” 

Henry faced around. “Bob StancUsh 
engineered it. Told this chap as long as he 
paid in advance anyway, to get a bargain, it 
wouldn’t make any difference to him, and it 
made a lot to me. Nine hundred and fifty a 
month for July and August and fifty a month 
for the next twenty-two months.” 

“But my dear boy, you still don’t earn more 
than a twenty fourth of the whole rental each 
month. That’s ordinary book-keeping. I 
should have thought you’d have learned it. It 
makes no difference when the lessee pays. All 
you can credit yourself in July and August 
is—” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Archer. There’s a considera- 
tion. You’ll find it on the next page. I’m to 
keep the theatre closed every afternoon in July 
and August so the lessee can make his altera- 
tions to the second story. And the extra price 


294 


ROPE 


for those months is to pay me for loss of 
revenue. So it does count on this year’s in- 
come. Maybe I’m no impresario, but by gosh, 
I can keep a set of books.” 

Mr. Archer nodded briskly. “That is dif- 
ferent. Why, Henry, as far as I can see . . . 
what’s this? 300 Chestnut Street? But the 
Orpheum’s on Main.” 

“300 Chestnut is the back entrance,” said 
Henry. He smiled across at Anna, and she 
stood up and came a perilous step towards 
him. “Well, old lady,” said Henry, and the 
same wide, foolish smile of utter joy was on 
his lips. “I guess this fixes it. I — ” 

He was rudely interrupted by the violent 
opening of the door. His Aunt Mirabelle 
stood there, dynamic, and behind her, in a 
great fluster of dismay and apprehension, 
stood the chairman of the Quarters Committee 
of the Reform League. 

“Henry! Henry Devereux! You — you 
swindler!” Her speech was seriously impeded 
by her wrath. “You — you — you.” She flung 
a savage gesture towards the little man in the 


ROPE 


295 


background. “You had an agent show him — 
show Mr. McClellan — this place through the 
back door ! — He didn’t know I — Henry Dever- 
eux, you’ve got my three thousand dollars, and 
you’re going to give it straight back to me! 
This minute! Do you hear?” 

Anna stared at her, and at Henry, and sat 
down plump and cried into her handkerchief, 
from sheer hysterical reaction. 

“Oh, yes,” said Henry. “Through the back 
door, if you say so. But that’s the regular 
business entrance. I suppose the agent thought 
it looked better, too.” 

* ‘ The agent ! That Standish man ! You con- 
spired. You — ” 

Henry’s chin went up. “Excuse me, Aunt 
Mirabelle, but I didn’t know the first thing 
about it until Bob Standish told me he had a 
client ready to close, and to pay in advance. 
I didn’t even know your man by sight. I’d 
have rented it to anybody on earth on the same 
terms.” 

The little chairman edged forward. “Miss 
Starkweather — Mrs. Mix — I knew how you feel 


296 


ROPE 


about motion pictures, of course, but how could 
I know you wouldn’t even want to be in the 
same building with — ” 

“Oh, dry up!” She whirled on the lawyer. 
“Is that fair! Do you call that fair! Do 
you!” 

Mr. Archer put his hand on Henry ’s shoulder, 
and nodded benignly. “To tell the truth, Mrs. 
Mix, I can’t see where this concerns you per- 
sonally at all. It’s a straightforward commer- 
cial transaction between Henry and Mr. Mc- 
Clellan.” 

“It isn’t, either! Mr. McClellan had author- 
ity from the League to get us a hall and sign 
a lease in his own name. I had the directors 
give it to him, myself. And it was my money 
that paid for it! Mine!” 

Henry grinned at the lawyer. “I didn’t 
know it until last Saturday. Bob told me if I’d 
make a dirt-low rent I could get it in advance, 
and up to Saturday I didn’t even know who 
I was dickering with.” 

His aunt was menacing. “Henry Devereux, 
if you try to cheat me out of my rightful prop- 


ROPE 297 

erty by any such flim-flam as this, I ... I 
... I don’t know what I’ll do!” 

“Oh, don’t, Aunt Mirabelle,” said Henry 
compassionately. “You know I won’t be a 
hog about it.” 

Some of the fury went out of her expression, 
and Mirabelle was on the verge of sniffling. 
“That’s just exactly it. I know you won’t. 
And the humiliation of it to me. When you 
know perfectly well if I’ d — ” 

She stopped there, with her mouth wide open. 
They all waited, courteously, for her to speak, 
but Mirabelle was speechless. She was think- 
ing partly of the past, and partly of the future, 
but chiefly of the present — the hideous, unneces- 
sary present in which Mr. Mix was motoring 
serenely about the city, paying out good money 
to theatre managers. Mirabelle ’s money, not 
to be replaced. And them— she nearly col- 
lapsed ! — the unspeakable humiliation of re- 
tracting her pledge to the national convention. 
Her pledge through Mr. Mix of twenty-five 
thousand dollars. How could she ever offer an 
excuse that would hold water? And how could 


298 E 0 P E 

she tell the truth? And to think of Mr. Mix’s 
place in the community when it was shown — as 
inevitably it would be shown — that he had acted 
merely as a toy balloon, inflated by Mirabelle’s 
vain expectations. 

‘ 4 Humph ! ’ ’ she said at length, and her voice 
was a hoarse, thin whisper. “Well — you just 
wait — ’till I get hold of him!” 


The door had closed behind her: the door 
had been closed behind Mr. Archer, whose 
kindly congratulations had been the more af- 
fecting because he had learned to love and re- 
spect the boy who had won them: Henry and 
his wife stood gazing into each other’s eyes. 
He took a step forward and held out his arms, 
and she ran to him, and held tightly to him, 
and sobbed a little for a postscript. 

He stroked her hair, gently. “Well — Archer 
says it’s going to be about seven hundred thou- 
sand. And I deserve about thirty cents. And 
you’re responsible for all the rest of it. . . . 


ROPE 299 

What do you want first? Those golden pheas- 
ants, or humming-birds ’ wings V ’ 

She lifted her face. “Both — b -because 1 
won’t have to cook ’em . Oh, my dear, my dear, 
I’ve l-loved it, I’ve loved it, I’ve loved working 
and saving and being poor with you and every- 
thing — b-but look at my h-hands, Henry, and 
don’t laugh at me — but I’m going to have a 
cook ! I’m going to have a cook ! I’m going to 
have a cook!” 

He kissed her hands. 

“It’s all over, isn’t it? All over, and we’re 
doing the shouting. No more wild men of 
Borneo, no more dishes to wash, no more Or- 
pheum. Remember what Aunt Mirabelle said 
a year ago? She was dead right. Look! See 
the writing on the wall, baby?” 

He swung her towards the door ! she brushed 
away her tears, and beheld the writing. It was 
in large red letters, and what it said was very 
brief and very appropriate. It said: EXIT. 


CHAPTER XVII 


I N the living-room of an unfashionable house 
on an unfashionable street, Mrs. Theodore 
Mix sat in stately importance at her desk, com- 
posing a vitriolic message to the unsympathetic 
world. As her husband entered, she glanced up 
at him with chronic disapproval; she was on 
the point of giving voice to it, not for any spe- 
cific reason but on general principles, but Mr. 
Mix had learned something from experience, 
so his get-away was almost simultaneous with 
his entrance. 

“Mail!” said Mr. Mix, and on the wing, he 
dropped it on his wife’s desk, and went on out 
of the room. 

The mail consisted of one letter ; it contained 
the check which Henry sent her regularly, on 
the first of each month. 

She sat back for a moment, and stared out 
at the unfashionable street. Mr. Mix was al- 
ways urging her to live in a better neighbour- 

300 


ROPE 


301 


hood, but with only her own two hundred and 
fifty a month, and four hundred more from 
Henry, she could hardly afford it, — certainly 
not while she gave so generously to the Reform 
League. 

She thought of the big brick house on the 
hill and sighed profoundly. She would have 
made it a national shrine, and Henry — Henry 
was even worse than his uncle. He kept it full 
of people who were satisfied to squander the 
precious stuff of life by enjoying themselves. 
It made her sick, simply to think of Henry. 
People said he and Bob Standish were the two 
cleverest men that ever lived in town. Doubled 
the Starkweather business in two years. Di- 
rectors of banks. Directors of the Associated 
Charities and trustees of the City Hospital. 
Humph! As if she didn’t know Henry’s capa- 
bilities. Just flippancy and monkey-t ricks. 
And married to a girl who was a walking ad- 
vertisement of exactly what every right-minded 
woman should revolt against. That girl to be 
the mother of children! Oh Lord, oh Lord, if 
Anna were a modern specimen, what would the 
next generation be 1 ’ ’ 


302 


ROPE 


She sighed again, and went back to the lec- 
ture she was composing. “The Influence of 
Dress on Modern Society.” Suddenly, she 
cocked her head and sniffed. She rose cau- 
tiously, as one who is about to trail suspicion. 
She went to the side-window, and peered out. 
From a little grape-arbor on the lawn, there 
floated to her the unmistakable odour of to- 
bacco— yes, and she could see a curling wisp 
of smoke. 

“Theodore!” 

A pause. “Yes, dear.” Mr. Mix’s voice 
had taken on, some months ago, a permanent 
quality of langour; and never, since the day 
that he was laughed out of politics, had he re- 
gained his former dignity and impressiveness. 

“Is that you — smoking again?” 

“Why — ■” 

“Are you? Answer me.” 

“Why — yes, dear — I — ” 

“Come in here this minute.” 

Mr. Mix emerged from the arbor. “Yes, 
dear?” 

She brandished her forefinger at him. “I 
told you what would happen next time I caught 


ROPE 


303 


you. Not one single cent do you get out of me 
for many a long day, young man. . . . Come 
in here; I want you to listen to what I’ve writ- 
ten.’ ’ 

Mr. Mix’s shoulders sagged, but he didn’t 
stop to argue. “Yes, dear,” he said, pacifi- 
cally. “I’m coming.” 


THE END 


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